MALE VALUES - PART 5

If I’m publishing this then I must have had some good reviews on Part 4 or sunshine probably apologized for being such a bitch. Either way, I’m back for another chapter. Most of my friends have been saying that I’ve been lacking in dirty talk for the last few weeks. I know I’ll be writing my death sentence (Sunshine and Co.) but lets get things back to male talk, shall we?
99% of women (note: the other 1% is under age 4), hate using toilet paper. To them the concept of wiping ones ass is as unknown as celibacy to men. How do they expel those nasty rocks you ask me? Well, by wearing thongs. Have you ever had a good look at those? They are nasty buggers that seem to fit into a woman’s asshole tighter than a nutcracker on balls (but that’s another story altogether…). What women do next is grab their weekly thongs in a bundle and throw them all into the washing machine. Kind of makes you wonder why some jeans have brown smudges on them.
I just got back from court. Don’t worry, it’s still safe for you to have chickens at home. I just got back from my law appeal. The one I suggested back in Part 1. According to the judge, the only reason women use skirts is to provoke a man. Not because they want him. He stated that one lovely green eyed girl from the Dominican Republic said, and I’ll quote: “We love the drooling look on guys’ faces when we move around in mini-skirts. We have the laugh of our lives…” Honey, your green eyes have me drooling already, never mind the rest of you (Love You Sylvie ;-)) Music is a woman’s way of blowing a guys mind. I’m not mentioning dancing (again), I’m referring to a simple, plain, “harmless” song. We all have a song that reminds us of a girl. Hell, I can name 100 songs and each one will be linked to at least 1 girl. We just can’t let it get to us. A friend of mine used to love hearing She Will Be Loved by Maroon 5, it was his “Moment of Glory”, now she dumped him, literally, and I’ll have to buy a fucking new Hi-Fi for playing that song every time he “accidentally” walked into the room.
This crazy thing happened to me a few months ago. I added Mario’s Let Me Love You video clip to my blog under the title: Mario – Let Me Love You. My mom got so perplexed when she saw it blogged onto my blog that she thought I was gay. (Damn, ok Richard, laugh it off, you too Braza) I got so pissed that I said: “What?!! You think I’m gay?!! After all the proof I’ve shown you?!!” She just said: “Well, college does thing to people” I will say no more. University does things to people. Some go gay, I didn’t. Some girls go bitchy, the ones I know didn’t. That’s what pisses me off. The Jews Promised Land was Egypt. Mine was Coimbra. I heard so many stories. I was rating it as XXX city of Portugal! I even had T-Shirts done: “Life Sucks. So Will You!” I get here and nothing. Not even a note on my flute. Not even icing on my cake. Not even coming with a little loving. No one told me you have to work for these girls too. I thought that getting a bone was enough to make her worship your god. Obviously religion isn’t the best approach, unless she’s an atheist wanting to kick the fucking hell out of you! A prick I still call my friend says I’m mean for writing Male Values. I guess that Varsity definitely got him from the BACK.
Drinking has to be the most efficient Lie Detector around. A few sips of Ethanol are enough to get the truth out of anyone. You can tell if a girl loves you or hates you. You can tell if she likes your blog or if she’s about to be a whore and add a screwed up comment on it. You can even tell if she’s biting her lips because she wants you or if it’s just an allergic reaction to Pre-Semen exposure. Just don’t ever try that on men. It’ll get nasty. This one bloke told another bloke he was hot. Come on! I’m supposed to be in the city of Hetero-Love, not in the middle of a daily Gay Pride Parade!!
That’s all for this week. I know it’s been depressing but so is Elvis Costello. He sucks. No, Diana Krall sucks. She’s married to Elvis Costello. Diana sucks Elvis. Damn. I wish I were depressing.