So before burden and boredom, drink and despair rob me of my life precious, it is my want that besides my bloated carcass I should leave behind a message to the children, a few words of insight to both penetrate and endure. I don't need a compass to smell which way the grass blows. I think its time to lay some things out.

"Ha, I don't need some old cocksucker telling me what to do, go die bitch. I'm young and smart enough already, so take your drunken ramblings and shove..."

SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP, YOU ARROGANT LITTLE WHIPPERSNAPPERS. THIS IS NOT OPTIONAL.

Grab a seat and put your other sock back on. And stop that, your mom doesn't believe you've been blowing your nose in them anyway.

There are certain things you must come to terms with in order to ensure your progression into mediocrity among the rest of the droning, cud-chewing herd of soul-less meat puppets infesting the planet surfaces. For one, you will all someday join me and your beloved pet hamsters in the unknown void of...

Death

It is coming for you. At any moment. And it don't care who you are. This ain't no fairy tale, you ain't gonna die on a bed surrounded by loved ones. You're going to get snuffed when you least expect it; a bus will run you down, a tree will fall on you. Someone will shot you, someone will stab you, with a knife. You will shit your pants and then you will be coffin stuffing. You need to get yourself before THEY get YOU, which is why you should do...

Drugs

Because you are not perfect. Because life is a bitch. Because your body is not a temple, it is a sausage.
With hair.

Stick to the five basic nutritional groups: nicotine, caffeine, alcohol, pot and 'shrooms. No nose candy, no pharmaceuticals, and nothing injectable or that requires learning a branch of chemistry to manufacture. Don't buy from Jamaicans, but if you have no other choice, always keep in mind the 12th Commandment: thou shalt weigh before ye pay.

Do 'em now, while you're a teenager, and therefore by default invincible, and also while you have the tremendous added benefit of not having to let an adult criminal record follow you around preventing the landing of a job with decent benefits and pay higher than $8.50 an hour. That way, when you are older, more responsible and well paid you can afford more drugs. You don't want to end up being that dick huffing glue behind a dumpster at a Waffle House.

And what better is there to do while hopped up on goofballs other than good old, unprotected, pre-marital...

Sex

It burns calories, lowers cholesterol, promotes a healthy heart and feels damn good to boot. It's not the most important thing in life, second only to breathing, which brings up the interesting combination of nostril intercourse.
(YOU PICTURED IT MENTALLY, NOW YOU CAN NEVER FORGET IT)
Sex, like Russian Roulette, is a team sport that can be played anywhere; a house, a car, under a trampoline, in a shopping cart, and for those of you with adept skill, standing up in a hammock.

Should you find yourself unable to proficiently co-operate with a teammate, mayhaps you need take a stroll down that long and lonesome highway known as...

Masturbation

While genitals may serve a secondary function of reproductive organ, first and foremost they were put there for your own amusement. Get to know your junk and make peace with it. Grab hold of that velvety life vein and learn your way around it. Let your crotch be the new frontier and your fingers be your guide. Grope until you can sculpt a perfect clay recreation of it blindfolded. If your wiener were a fugitive from justice, you should be able to give a sketch artist so accurate a description the police would pick it up in less than forty minutes.

Now that the two of you are well acquainted, take control of this new found relationship and abuse it like a mildly retarded red-haired stepchild. Pound that meat until it is more tender than a damn wet pillow, then keep on beating until it's spongy, bruised and begging for mercy like a Catholic during the second coming of Jesus.

Let we not deny that this policy is bipartisan. Ladies, take weapon in hand and pound one up the middle like Warren Sapp on the 2-yard line. I know many of you are less than comfortable rendering sports analogies, however I thought the mental image of a large, sweaty, muscular black man would make it an easier pill to swallow. Remember, 'tis no shame being a bit ebony-curious. If it pisses off daddy so, it must be something worth investigating.

If you find you've been subject to moral indoctrination by parents and teachers, or brainwashing by Christians and other persona non-sanity, remember that any sinful act can be made clean if you take heed in koshrut law: "If the deed be done through a hole in a sheet, then it be pure in the eyes of Yahweh." -a reading from the book of the prophet Jehosephat; Deuteronomy, Old Testament, in The Bible According to motherfucking Me.

"But sexuality is a sacred blessing only to be exercised blah blah blah, sacrament of marriage, blah blah blah (more politically correct religious propaganda horse-puckey) blah blah blah blah blah..."

Virginity

"Is a gift you can only give once." - teat-sucking pussy nonsense. It is an insubstantial, intangible concept of perception, like time, sobriety, and Eskimos. It weighs you down like a sack of onions tied to your throat and will haunt your days worse than the movie Paycheck (God, what an awful piece of crap.) Cut it loose and bid good riddance.
Like an asshole on the kneecap, it's not doing you any good anyhow.

In closing, remember kids: BELIEVE IN YOURSELF, BRUSH ALL YOUR SCHOOL, STAY IN MILK, DRINK YOUR TEETH, DON'T DO SLEEP, GET 8 HOURS OF DRUGS.

Etch these words into your mind's brain, let them stick with you like a flaring case of herpes from a 3-Euro-a-pop Dutch whore, and one day you too will be able to fuck 'em with your cash.

Kick ass, chew bubblegum, and be sure to bring enough of both for everyone.

I'll take a shoe up the ass and two good slaps to the fucking mouth.

J
A
M
O
K
E

*NEW POST COMING SOON*

While you wait, please enjoy this ass.

When asked his thoughts about Game 5 of the Stanley Cup finals, he chuckled, and then answered:

"I don't really care," he said with an impish smile. "It's all about the Dodgers. I don't think anyone really watches hockey anymore."

(full article HERE)

You would think that the wealthiest, most endorsed athlete on the planet would choose his words more carefully, especially while speaking in public forum. Whether said in jest or not, how could he have thought even for a single second his words would not read well on paper?

Not to mention the last thing a colored public figure, who's been through as much media scrutiny as he has, should do is piss off a vast group of white people such as hockey fans. Don't look shocked and appalled the day when you're on the 5th green trying to sink a put for birdie when suddenly you are pegged in the face with a Molson bottle, Tiger.

I'm sure if they could pull it off the American news media would play a little game of "six degrees of separation" and somehow try to link Tiger's obviously offensive comments to Barack Obama in a vein attempt to make the already self-conscious candidate loose face during the presidential campaign. Like the pack of unscrupulous, unoriginal, blood-thirsty wolves they are.

The kicker to this most blasphemous of scandals, however, is Woods' close personal partnership with the Great One himself, Wayne Gretzky, with whom he financed the now defunct All-Star Café. If Wayne weren't the retired gentleman that he is, I'm sure he'd be the first to retaliate, although not physically. Let's just hope for Tiger's sake he doesn't cross paths with the likes of Todd Bertuzzi any time soon.

Oh, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY KHALID!

He's 3 years old today!

Why aren't people more intelligent, like me?

*Disclaimer: What you are about to read is true. Any likeness to actual events is intentional. The names of the persons involved have not been changed to protect the innocent.*

The following dialogue took place on the streets of a small southern Connecticut suburb between 1:05 and 1:10 AM on February 1, 2008.

Fireman: "Sir, please, remain calm and just try to explain what happened in your own words. Lead me through the details. Just start at the beginning."

Jamoke: "Hmm, that's a hard one to explain, but I'll do my best. (lights cigarette) The most popular scientific explanation is a theory known as the Big Bang- the cosmological model of the universe whose primary assertion is that the universe has expanded into its current state from a primordial condition of enormous density and temperature. See, scientists believe that all the matter and energy in the universe was contained in singular mass they refer to as..."

Robyn: "Stop being a smart ass, Jamoke!"

Fireman: "Not that far back, sir. Just the details of this evening will do."

Jamoke: "Oh, sorry. Well, first I picked up my girlfriend, Robyn, after her 12 hour shift at the hospital ended. I took her back to her place so she could hop in the bath and change clothes. I decided to play some Super Nintendo to pass the time since she takes so goddamn long in the bathroom."

Fireman: "My wife is the same way. Hmpf, women, am I right?"

Jamoke: "Fuckin' A."

Robyn: " 'Moke!"

Jamoke: "Sorry sweetie. *ahem* where was I? Anyway, afterwards we went out to do a little shopping, then we went back to my place and I cooked her dinner: seared chicken breast with a béarnaise sauce, seasoned with black pepper, basil, marjoram, thyme, cumin and rosemary and a squirt of lemon, with roasted garlic mashed potatoes and broccoli florets almondine sautéed in extra virgin olive oil with just a pinch of sea salt."

Robyn: "My Favorite. It was quite delicious."

Fireman: "I'm sure it was, ma'am, but please, just the relevant details if you would."

Jamoke: "Yes, of course. So after dinner we retired upstairs to the master suite to watch a little television. Of course we had to watch HER shows, like House Hunters and What Not to Wear and other crap like that."

Fireman: "My wife makes me watch the same HGN shit all the time too. I can't stand it."

Jamoke: "For real. Like I care to sit through a half-hour of two homosexuals re-arrange some one else's IKEA mail order furniture, or help some fat bitch pick a new wardrobe. Meanwhile, I'm missing the fucking Rangers game."

Robyn: "Hey!"

Jamoke: "Quiet, honey, the men are talking. Where did I leave off? Ah yes, so as we were lying in bed I decided I'd had enough of the TV and started working the patented Jamoke mojo. I pulled out the ol' bong and packed a few bowls of all-natural herbal panty peeler. I don't touch the stuff anymore, myself, but I know from experience when they smoke they poke."

Fireman: "That's how I first nailed my wife. Works every time."

(high five)

Robyn: "Hey!!!"

Jamoke: "So after setting the mood I started getting to work a little... 'south of the boarder,' know what I mean? (wink) Not to stroke my own ego, but when it comes to handling the meat curtains I can say with confidence that I pretty much am unequaled in form and technique. I slide in there head-first like Pete Rose stealing second and get to work hard like a Mexican day laborer, but with the grace and gentility of a veteran safecracker. Wasn't long before I had her combination down and unlocked the floodgates."

Robyn: "Yes, he's quite good. He does this counter-clockwise thing with his tongue that just sends me..."

Fireman: "Ahem, once again, please just stick to the important details, sir." (*whispering*) "psst, give me some pointers later."

Jamoke: "No problem. So after taking care of the Misses I was ready to move in for the kill. I proceeded to dominate the hole like Shaquille O'Neal, when we noticed the heavy odor of something burning in the room. At first we assumed it was the aroma of over-cooked food, possibly emanating from something one of my roommates was cooking in the kitchen downstairs."

Robyn: "They suck at cooking compared to him. They could burn a salad."

Jamoke: "True, I do kick ass in the kitchen, no argument there."

Fireman: "Sir, the point? What exactly was it that was burning?"

Jamoke: "Ah yes... well, it seems in my haste to kick off the bolony pony rodeo, I may have, accidentally, thrown my shirt over the lamp which may have, completely through no fault of my own, been set ablaze by the 75 watt light bulb there in. May have, I'm no forensic scientist, I don't know for sure how these things work, mind you, but I'm somewhat sure that might have been what set off the smoke alarm and summoned you fine gentleman here this evening."

Fireman: "So, what you're telling me, right here and now, is that I got woken up and called out at one in the morning because you were too busy screwing to notice an article of clothing beginning to smolder on top of a desk light?! Jesus Christ, a 75 watt light bulb would have taken 20 minutes to a half-an-hour to generate enough heat to ignite a cotton blend shirt! Are you bullshitting me or something?!"

Jamoke: "Sheesh, I wish. That was my favorite, "I'm Rick James, bitch" tee. Not to mention I was just getting warmed up too. For frigg's sake, I didn't even get to fire the main cannon."

Fireman: (blank stare)

Jamoke: "Hey, don't look at me that way. Believe me, I tried to climb back into the saddle, I was totally still ready to roll..."

Robyn: "...but nothing kills the mood like a room full of noxious fumes. Eyes welling with tears while uncontrollably gagging is not exactly a turn-on."

Jamoke: "Oh yeah? See Rule 36."

Fireman: "...Fuck this." (walking away) "What an asshole."

Jamoke: "Do you believe that, he just walked out on us. The nerve. I certainly will not be buying tickets to the annual Fireman's pancake dinner this year."

Darkness. The sound of water flowing through pipes can be heard gently. There is a strange squeaking, emanating from behind the wall, slowly moving closer and closer. A man stumbles around in the dark, mumbling with fear and whimpering like a lost child.
A fluorescent light suddenly turns on. The heavy iron door in the corner swings open and an ominous doll rolls into the room on a small tricycle.
The intercom speaker crackles with electricity. A deep, rasping voice begins to speak.

"Hello Ben Affleck. This is your wake up call."

"Throughout your career you have performed with mediocrity. The level of your success despite your lack of talent has been a perplexing phenomenon for years. You have been fortunate enough to work alongside some of the most seasoned actors of modern cinema; Bruce Willis, Cuba Gooding Jr., Morgan Freeman, Gary Sinise, Ray Liotta, and yet you still refused to show any hope of rising to their level. You have squandered every great opportunity presented to you, beginning with the good fortune you were blessed with when Matt Damon let you and your worthless brother Casey ride his coat tails and co-wrote you on Good Will Hunting."

"You were terrible in that movie as well."

"But today I am giving you a chance. A chance to redeem yourself."

"I want to play a little game."

"The object is simple. Right now you are trapped within a paper bag. All you have to do is act your way out of it. You have thirty minutes. After that time is up the door to this room will lock sealing you within forever."

"Succeed and you will live to continue stealing roles from more deserving actors and tarnishing otherwise decent movies with your sub-standard performance. Fail and this room becomes your grave. The choice is yours to make. You decide..."

EDIT: For Cericon

************************ NEW POST UNDER CONSTRUCTION ************************

In the meantime, here are some tits.

***Warning: this is the worst piece of shit I've ever written.***

I apologize in advance for the unusual nature of this post. Unlike my previous rants, this one will be of modest length and contain less of my own unique material. Not because I have nothing to say about the topic of choice or that I am experiencing any sort of writer's block, on the contrary, the situation is quite the opposite. Each time I make an attempt to materialize my thoughts on the matter I find the desired end result is far too difficult to achieve. I would like to be able to make a traditional rant appropriate to my usual ability, but this time the subject is of a nature that disallows my rationale to maintain a clear form and four scotch and sodas later I find I have let the text mushroom cloud into a lengthy cacophony of inane scrutiny and ramblings which read like the thoughts of a masochistic maniac clattering for the blood of a society gone mad.

So, like the lazy cunt that I am I included a bunch of links to better portray my thoughts.
Click 'em when you see 'em. Just go with it. Do it for the lulz.

What is this topic that is driving me, the already brutally insane, even more insane?
To sum it up in as few words as I can- the constant emulation of African-American mannerisms by Caucasian adolescents. In even fewer words, white kids acting black.

A.K.A. - "Wiggers."

Being of a duel ethnicity myself, both white and black, this issue has always confounded me to the point of lunacy for as long as I can recall. I have pondered the question time and time again, do white folk here in America so feel the need to mimic the gesticulations of other cultures to fill the void left by their own lack of a sense of ethnic identity as to act like a farcical embarrassment in front of others just to gain approval from peers? Does the same problem exist in other countries? Am I the only one who believes that it IS a problem? I'm sure if he were alive today Sigmund Freud would spend the remainder of his years and the entirety of his genius trying to elucidate the theory of why this phenomenon exists, but to no avail. He would lay confounded on his deathbed, surrounded by the empirical evidence of his research, consisting of Tivoed shows from MTV, Eminem CDs and secret surveillance footage of pubescent children from Middle-American wearing G-Unit hats with straight-as-the-crow-flies brims, NBA throwback jerseys and baggy jeans emblazoned with the FUBU logo whilst standing in front of their mom's single wide trailer listening to Lil' Wayne on their iPods, smoking menthols, drinking Crunk Juice, cursing every other word, flipping gang signs like they're from Compton and "hollerin' at sho'ties passin' tru da hood in da tree one fou' like it ain't no thang, fo' shizzle son."

Personally I don't think there is anything glamorous about acting "ghetto," let alone being from one. My parents moved from the downtown projects to the North-side suburbs when I was about 5, around the time my sister was born, and if you ever go to that old neighborhood tell the people there that Jamoke and his entire family say we're glad we got the fuck out.

That place was totally shithouse straight up and down like 6 o'clock.

I must ask, does one truely get satisfaction from being refered to as a wigger? Don't people realize just how ignorant they sound when they use the N-word? Such behavior does nothing but invite shame upon yourself and serves to bring down an otherwise intellectual society as a whole, regardless of the capacity of the intended use of the word. Unless it's genuinely fucking hilarious. Otherwise, just find a different or unique way of expressing a racial slur. It can lighten the blow.

(Hehehe, did you hear that one guy say, "nigwiches?" Now that's shitfaced.)

I need to stop here before this becomes an indecipherable tirade once more. This can all be summed up in less than words. I'll let the picture below do the talking.

Just to clarify, I don't hate anyone for the color of their skin. I may be a bitter, rotten, foul-mouthed asshole with a grudge against humanity, a 30 cigarette a day habit and a drinking problem, but at least racism is one flaw I can leave off the résumé. I still believe that there's nothing wrong with a good ol' fashioned stereotype here and there, 'tis but all in good fun. Besides, I have more intelligent criteria for distributing my antipathy, however, I must say sometimes you white kids do drive me nucking futs.

We can co-exist peacefully without having to get caught up with an illogical need to redefine our personas with indecorous, aberrant behavior. Act how you want, but do it with respect for yourself. Be yourself, but take time to learn how to do it with dignity. You will find that color doesn't make a difference and thusly gain acceptance for who you really are intrinsically.

Just as long as you're not a total fag.

Seriously Chris, fucking die of AIDS already.

-J.

*Warning: the following editorial may contain biased opinions written by a sleep-deprived prick under the influence of alcohol and may offend some readers.
Viewer discrech... discreshun... diskretion..................... just don't read it.*

I fucking hate this country.

Not like normal hate. It's so much more black.

If this country were a street gang, I'd fucking go to war with it with bottles and chains.

Before you flip your desk over in a fit of blind rage and storm out of your house to form a posse bent on finding me to string me up on the lowest branch of the nearest tree by my blasphemous, unpatriotic, half-negro head stump let me explain my reason for so boldly expressing my revulsion in public forum.

America has become a land of utter disillusionment. The small freedoms we as a people used to enjoy are slowly being replaced by the agenda of neo-conservative pussies and their propensity for telling others how to live their lives. Case in point: it is now illegal to smoke in a bar.

What is this, Nazi Germany?

The day this legislation was passed into law I nearly stormed the capital building of my state with the intention of killing every living being within and setting fire to the structure to cremate the corpses of the victims of my horrendous, bare-handed murder spree thusly denying their loved ones the dignity of giving them a proper burial. If I hadn't overslept that day the evening news would definately have been something to set the VCR for, but luckily for my potential prey it was nickel shot day at Hooters the night before and my hangover was Malthusian in scope.

Holy fuck do I love their wings.

In my humble opinion, every person who lobbied for the anti-smoking law deserves to be dragged by the hair from their bed in the middle of the night, knelt down in the street like a $4 hooker and shot in the face point blank execution style before the eyes of their closest friends and family members. I ask you, what divine power gave anyone the right to take away my ability to choose when and where I want to continue to lose the fight to lung cancer? I could see banning it in certain places perhaps, like at the gas pump or in a classroom of any grade lower than 5th, that's just good cricket, but not being able to light up in a bar is the equivalent of going to Tijuana and not staying for the donkey show. The two just go hand-in-hand.

That show was the best twelve bucks I ever spent. I'll never forget THAT Christmas.

Twenty or thirty years ago you could smoke anywhere you wanted to in this country;
on the bus, in a hotel, a police station squad room while you're handcuffed to a detective's desk as you calmly explain that the coke isn't yours and you were just giving that underage prostitute a ride home, where ever. You could even smoke in a hospital maternity ward waiting room. The expecting fathers would be smoking, the security guard would be smoking, even the doctor would be smoking a thick Cuban cigar, sometimes even during delivery. I'd bet the first thing I heard after popping out of the womb was, "Congratulations, it's a boy. Nurse, hand me that ashtray."

My baby blanket still smells like a Cohiba Robusto.

It's now becoming colder here in New England as winter draws near. The temperature dips more and more into testicle shrinking levels of bitter freezing in the evening. Having to step outside the bar for a cigarette starts to feel like a race against hypothermia, especially when I've been drinking since 10a.m. in a vein attempt to relieve the pain of my wretched hell-bound existence. Contrary to popular belief, alcohol does not warm you up, rather it constricts the blood vessels reducing circulation to the extremities, thus making the frosty autumn breeze feel like a stinging wind of icy death blowing across the tundra of Siberia on a moonless night in February. Though the one benefit of the sub zero temperatures around here would have to be the total lack of homeless people come spring. I don't know if they migrate to warmer climates like birds or simply freeze to death under the first blanketing of snow, nor do I care. All I know is there are no beggars on every corner looking for a handout so the change holder in the dashboard of my car is full enough to buy me a pack of Marlboro lights and the new May issue of "Black and Juicy."

Big ebony tits and cancer sticks, my favorite combination besides rum and coke.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against the homeless and I do believe in helping those less fortunate than I. Aside from selflessly giving them solicitous advice on how to climb the proverbial sociological ladder and get their lives back on track by screaming, "Get a job, you worthless cunt!" as I drive by in my BMW 328i while throwing 2 litter Sprite bottles filled with piss at them, I have other ways of assisting those in need of a helping hand. Once a year I take it upon myself to do something just a little extra special; I travel down to the city park and hide fifty 40-ouncers of malt liquor in the bushes. Think of it as an Easter-egg hunt for bums. If only I could see the look of excitement on their un-bathed, weathered faces as they fervently crack open the screw top, gingerly guzzle that first crisp swallow of stupid sauce and praise a God who gave up on them long ago for this one moment of random good fortune. But I believe charity should be anonymous and simply enjoy reveling in having done a good deed without needing the superfluous, ego-inflating gratitude in return.

That and the park is located in a black neighborhood and I don't want to leave my car unattended for too long.

Keep those banana peelin' fingers off my whip.

It feels good to give back to the community.

-J.

***DISCLAIMER: THIS EDITORIAL MAY CONTAIN EXCESSIVE DRUNKEN RAMBLING BY A COMPLETE PERVERT AND MAY NOT BE FOUND HUMOROUS BY ANYONE***

I'm sitting in a waiting room reading Cosmo's "25 Ways to Please Your Man," checking the article to see if the top ten contain in any way, shape or form the words hand job, sandwich or fellatio. Typically, no, they don't. I quickly deduce whoever wrote the article must have been a woman.

When will they learn.

Today is my day off from the soul crushing monotony that is my job. An otherwise fun day which I usually reserve for downloading free 15 second clips of Japanese bukkake vids between levels of Tekken 2 whilst depriving my brain of oxygen with copious amounts of 80 proof clear liquids and frost brewed Rocky Mountain goodness. Yet here I sit in a meagerly decorated lobby abysmally sober and smutless waiting to see the dentist for a routine cleaning, something I regularly do twice each year like every civilized person living in a first-world country who isn't British ought to do. However today is going to be anything but a regular visit, as I was informed while checking in with the excessively perky receptionist annoyingly slurping from a grande Starbuck's cup, for today I shall be seeing his substitue- the dental hygienist.

"Jesus H. Christ on a rubber fucking crutch, not the dental hygienist," or as I prefer to call her, the tooth-scraping witch from Hell. "God damn it," I think to myself, "I unknowingly made my appointment for the day the REAL dentist is off. He's probably having fun playing a round of golf or contemplating suicide while blowing a thick line of Columbian bang-bang off a prostitute's ankle, the rat bastard, sticking me to suffer his barely trained intern. Piss."

I knew I shouldn't have come here sober.

Aside from the sole perk of getting to pilfer an occasional glimpse at her round, juicey, well ripened sweater fruit through the providentially unbuttoned top of her blouse while she leans in, I utterly loath the dental hygienist. The list of people I cannot stand attempting conversation with is a long one, but conversing with her is certainly one of the absolute worst. It's always a fucking nightmare. She wants to makes the most bullshit small talk as she's sending me to the furthest reaches of a new dimension of slightly tolerable yet still gallingly unsettling discomfort, all the while peppering her office banter with commentary like, "Well, just LOOK at your teeth! You haven't been taking proper care of them, now have you?" Obtuse and insensitive remarks such as this are to blame for instantaneously triggering the switch to the sarcasm center of my already over-stressed-the-fuck-out mind, which by this point is blaring at me to call this whole thing off and make a hasty exit to recollect myself at the nearest bar.

Preferably one with lap dances.

It should come as no shock to her when the next thing I spew out of my now bleeding, clamped open, cotton lined speech hole is, "Well lady, at home I don't usually clean them with a metal fucking spike." For some unknown reason, it always does.

Fuck you Oral B. "Brush like a dentist" my ass.

For all their fancy schooling you would think these people would have more common sense than to shoot nonsensical remarks at a person who's in one of the most agitating and vulnerable positions in modern society, second only to anally raped while bent over a cold stainless steel toilet bowl in prison, the God damned dentist's chair. It is a deranged twilight zone of total indignity. You cannot stop drooling on your self like a cerebral palsy victim, to which the thinner-than-OJ's-alibi paper bib offers little to no protection. There's a metal tray of sharp to pointy to "what the motherfuck is THAT?!" type instruments 6 inches away eerily reminding you of the last half hour of the movie "Hostel." A perfect stranger is hovering over, poking and prodding and breathing heavy and sometimes smelling of liquor, much like Counselor Mitch at the Christian Youth summer camp after taking a supple limbed 8 year old boy into the storage shed to make him mouth cuddle his "naughty stick." Unlike the dentist, at least afterwards Mitch will spring for a kayak ride and ice cream which the two participants eat in murky silence broken only by the phrase, "This is going to be our little secret," as they proceed to stare at one another with a vacant, piercing and reciprocally shameful gaze.

Going to the dentist is like being molested as a child. Is it any wonder why your kids hate it so damn much? It probably reminds them of being a victim.

Stop touching your children.

Floss daily.

-J.