First came the tentacle rape.
It was the beginning in a long line of horrors that OMGJeremy has subjected me to in his articles since the very beginning in 2002. (OMGJeremy.com was the site that most of us used to write for.) But you know what they say: what doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger. Well, I must be invincible by now. And not only have I seen a lot, but I’ve written about a lot too, articles that have been lost to time mostly, including a review of a site that teaches women how to rape their husbands. But in 2003, I found something that managed to combine all of those and more. It’s as if all my nightmares Go-Go-Power-Morphed into some unholy Megazord and returned to feed me my own ass.
“What is it?” you’re probably asking as you close the door and open a new browser window. Why It’s none other than Furcadia — an online game that let you take on the role of an animal and interact with others in a series of dream worlds. And not surprisingly in the least, it contains the three big staples of the internet diet: furries, cybersex, and MMORPGs.
Before actually working at a party supply store, I was unaware that there are party supplies for EVERYTHING. I had previously been under the notion that people weren’t so stupid that they would need to run out and buy a giant bull skull to complete the look of their “Tex-Mex party,” which would just end up looking like a regular party except with a giant shitty foam bull skull hanging on the wall.
While perusing the mind-numbing amount of overpriced shit for parties, I wandered upon a section, nay, an entire AISLE, just for celebrating old people’s birthdays and such. Well, let me rephrase that since it’s not entirely the truth: An entire aisle just for mocking old people’s further decline into a miserable old age and eventually to a depressing death that will most likely be filled with memories of the time their children bought them a fake jar of Viagra for their 60th birthday.
Some would call them “gag” gifts, and I suppose they are. Only I have never seen so many, and some so completely brutal, in one area before — all for simply being old. It’s as if to say “Congratulations on living for 3/4 of a century and accomplishing more than most of us ever will, now put this chicken suit on and DANCE YOU OLD SHIT.”
There are aspects of the human condition which baffle me. I mean, I have most of it all figured out, of course, but I admit some things make no sense to me. And there are things going on in our societies that seem like they are poorly thought out, and maybe even ill-advised. What is everyone thinking!
Most of us can agree that there are big things that are wrong. Big wrong things that nevertheless a lot of people partake in, such as racism, homophobia, murder, and so on. I will not speak further on those. I am here today to talk about the little things that aren’t hurting anyone but me and my brain. What are you people doing? Why!
Being a girl is one of the best things ever to happen to me. My gender allows me to live in a pink world filled with unicorns, kittens, pillows, sweets, and all manner of nice things. I get to Girl Talk, rely on boys to lift heavy objects for me, and to remove insects from my sight. Also, for a few days every month, I get to be a hyper-emotional psycho with very little in the way of consequences – whether I want to be or not! Other girls understand and allow it (unless they are also in that time of the Most Terrible of Cycles), and boys understand just enough to try to ignore it. This bittersweet reward is known as the P.M.S.
This article isn’t going to be a guide for helping boys to better cope and appease the women in their lives during this bleak moment. Every girl houses a specific, unique, terrible tapestry of physical and psychological destruction, and it changes with every month. So it is nigh impossible to write a comprehensive list on how you could meet your lady friends’ needs. It just isn’t going to happen, fellas.
All of this could have been avoided. This entire article wouldn’t have even been necessary if my parents had followed a fairly logical rule. As a parent myself, I know this rule inside and out. If you have kids, you know it too. But for those of you without children, I am about to drop a real gem on you. A piece of advice that will make your parenting days a lot easier and lessen the chances of your home experiencing a murder/suicide. You ready? Okay.
Don’t tell a child that they can’t see/do something because it is “for adults.”
There you go. I just saved you a lot of yelling and a handful of awkward visits from Child Services. Now don’t go thinking I’m one of those people who doesn’t believe in telling a kid they can’t have something or do something. I’m not saying that you should let a child get away with whatever. By all means, tell them “no” when you want them to keep their snot and dirt-encrusted hands off of something. When they ask you why, just don’t make the mistake of telling them it is for “big folks,” “adults,” “mommy and daddy,” or whatever other stupid shit you say instead of just looking them in the eye and saying, “Shut the fuck up.”
A good solid “shut the fuck up” from my folks sure would have saved me a whole lot of grief.
Parties are weird and dancing is really hard, especially when you’re still sober enough to remember how bad you are and how everyone may or may not be staring at you. Sure, you can get crunk real fast and run onstage, make friends with the DJ before security kicks you off, and dance up there. But that’s kind of crazy, Dollissa. And Webster Hall sucks.
An easier solution is to work on your fabulous wallflower dance moves. Lean up against that wall by the drink table. Relax by the corner with the least lighting. But whatever you do, don’t look like a nerd who can’t dance. Brush up on these drink-holding friendly dance moves and you’ll feel comfortable at those awkward events in no time.
Santa Claus knows how to live. He has a wonderfully cozy home in the Land of Igloos, unlimited cookie access, and Mrs. Claus makes him a Christmas Dinner almost every night. He doesn’t have to do anything that exerts him physically because he has a legion of well-paid elves to do his bidding. Unfortunately, this rich lifestyle can lead to health problems.
Santa is becoming a little “jollier than usual” if you catch my drift.
Chances are you are like me and you take a lot of modern conveniences for granted. There isn’t really anything wrong with that, I guess. I mean, here in 2016 [Editor’s note: remember to change the date when we are low on content and re-post this in a year or two] we just assume such things as sanitary products, electronics, and other assorted things are our God-given and rightful property. We feel a great sense of entitlement, and therefore have really stopped appreciating these simple pleasures that keep our world up and running smoothly. It’s just hard for someone who has grown up with such things to understand…
Until you have to do without.
My friends, I had to do without recently. I didn’t have to part ways with my cell phone, or microwavable food items, or anything like that. If that was the case I’d JUST DIE! No, I had to do without something that plays a rather large role in our lives. I had to do without a goddamn shitter: the unsung hero of household items. That’s right, I had to use the toilet without having a toilet to use. You might have trouble wrapping your head around this, because really, the toilet is always there. It’s like a good, dedicated friend. You can always find comfort in its consistency. Cold, white, incredibly heavy but blissfully unaware of just how big it is, and usually full of shit. Now that I think about it, it really is just like a lot of friends I’ve had (and you have probably had as well).
But imagine briefly, that when you need that friend the most, they are nowhere to be found! That when you reach out and expect that helping hand you’ve grown so accustomed to grasping you and pulling you to safety… it doesn’t happen. Of course, I am completely to blame for the incident I am writing about. Looking back I can clearly see where I went wrong.
Times are hard these days. There is no doubting this statement – they really are as hard as you think. Many of you reading this unintentionally exhaustive article in idle moments between job hunting or unemployment checks may feel discouraged to the point of melodrama. There are no good jobs. There aren’t even that many LOUSY jobs, for that matter. Getting a bit desperate to rake in a little spending cash to feed your mouth, family, addictions, or bills, you may begin to consider the ultimate in desperate sources of income: Prostitution.
Street Whoring is an ancient profession, dating back to caveman days, when cavewomen would wear short, sheer smilodon pelts and entice the cavemenfolk into sexual congress in exchange for brontosaurus steaks or pretty rock bracelets. Not much has changed since those glorious days, except that there are more options for the average woman or man in these modern times, and possibly more STDs to be passed around, as viruses had not been invented back then.
There are a variety of kinds of whore these days, ranging from the lowly crackwhore to the lowly camwhore to the haughty housewife. One could say that any of you working a job you do not care to perform are prostituting yourselves in another sense. Don’t worry. Nobody judges you for it, because at the end of the day, perhaps we are ALL whores, at least metaphorically. And in some places, there are legal prostitutes who have willingly joined that workforce because they love what they do, and can make a lot of money doing it. That is as good as any other job, as far as I am concerned – maybe even better in some cases! But I am actually trying to dissuade you from being the commonly accepted form of whore, here. This paragraph was probably unnecessary, but I am not in the habit of deleting anything.
We have a lot of fears. Some make sense; others, not so much. This latter type will be featured once monthly until we run out of material, at which point, we might begin accepting the fears of our readers.
The women of my family all love rings. They lavishly adorn themselves with up to three rings per finger, like crazy people. Meanwhile, I can’t even wear a one. Many times so far throughout my life, I have been talked into “just trying on” one of their rings, and I can’t resist, because the jewels glitter. A ring is supposed to be snug so that it doesn’t fall off and you subsequently lose some of your riches. However, if a ring is even the slightest bit snug, the moment I notice, I am gripped with this panic. I scramble at my own hand and am all such as, “get it off of me GET IT OFF OF ME.” Normally, it comes right off, but not before I imagine my finger rapidly turning black and dropping away, stinking and fetid, like I’m suddenly caught in some medieval amputation procedure.
I regret it, a little. I know that rings can get in the way of many daily tasks. And I would hate to lose one, or break away the stone. But I enjoy accessories. However, I do not enjoy the feeling of being trapped, or the thought of losing digits. I keep stretching out my fingers and assuring them that they are free as I write this.