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If you’re reading this, I have to assume that you’ve stuck your dick in too many biscuits and now you’ve got an amped-up yeast infection that goes by the name of Herpes. Why else would you open something with a title like this? Because you enjoy my deadpan sarcasm and think it’ll be funny? The only person that tells me I’m funny is my Mom, and she never actually laughs at anything I say, which gives me a feeling that she’s lying when she says I’m the next George Carlin. Enough about me though, I’m here to tell you the best way to inform a girl that the rash you have all over your crotch isn’t a sunburn from sitting outside naked.
Now I’d love to end this piece here and then go stare at myself in a mirror and let my body swell with regret at the fact that I’m still carrying last night’s 2 a.m. Chinese food baby, but TFM will probably send me some passive-aggressive Facebook message about how my talents are “greatly appreciated,” but maybe my content could be more “thorough.” Fine, here’s some explanation for your amusement.
Why should you not tell her? Well for one thing, YOU HAVE A FUCKING STD. It doesn’t matter if it’s herpes or just a zit that popped up outta nowhere that she happened to notice because your shitdick brain decided to just leave it there and throw manscaping out the window. It’s fucking gross. If you tell her that you’ve got so much as a mystery bump down there, all bets of you ever getting laid again are completely out the window. Not only will this girl never fuck you again, but she’ll tell her friends, her friends will tell their friends, and within 40 seconds flat your reputation has officially been changed to “The kid in Sig Chi with syphilis.” The remainder of your college career will be pussyless as you spend every social sitting in a corner roped off with some shitty quarantine tape that was meant for an ABC party but got wasted on you, and if you’re a pledge you get to wear one of those cones that dogs wear when they can’t stop licking their dicks in public (I’ve never owned a dog, but that’s my best guess as to why those cones are used). Anyway, you should just transfer; you’re fucked minus the whole woman-aspect of it anyways.
“Golly gee willikers Rebecca!” you say out loud to no one in particular as your parents openly weep down the hall about how they should have had two kids instead of one because they got stuck with you, and you keep talking out loud to people that aren’t in the room. “That’s all fine and dandy, but what do I do about my dick looking like ruger_dern’s face?” Well, first of all, that doesn’t sound like an STD, it just sounds like your parents played around with the genetic lottery, and you got stuck with a bunch of losing scratch-off’s. Second, if you’re diseased, then clear the shit out of your brain and go see a doctor. Why do I even need to say this? This should be your first thought, but I know that the obvious escapes my brain at least nine times out of ten. Coupled with the fact that most of you have the mental capacity of a bagel, I repress my urge to just write “duh.”
Of course there will be people out there who won’t tell anyone and will refuse to see a doctor. They are natural selection in full effect. They will waste away from syphilis-induced brain lesions all because they chose to die with their dick at fullmast rather than let it sag at the 6 o’clock position while they took pills for a few weeks. In other words, these people are both so functionally stupid that they deserve anonymous deaths and heroes at the same time.
Think about it. How many laws do we have in place so that we don’t accidentally kill ourselves? Wear your seatbelt, put on a helmet when riding a bike, don’t smoke meth. It’s bullshit! If I wanna risk killing myself and jaywalk through intersections at night wearing all black, well that’s my own fucking problem (besides my love for bad bitches). People should be allowed to accidentally kill themselves if it’s stupidity induced, because otherwise we wind up in a society with television channels like E! and Bravo that glorify fat people with heinous plastic surgery. These fools stand as proof that natural selection is indeed real and necessary, and it tends to work so that they only pass their dickrot onto other people dumb enough to fall for cruddy pickup lines and no game whatsoever. If I had it my way, there’d be a statue to commemorate every person that didn’t quite make it up the IQ bell curve and died trying to climb it.
But really, the only reason to ever be one of these people is if you have a genuine hate for the human race and want to see the world burn to the ground as everyone around you grabs at their crotches in excruciating pain, or if you think that dying from a disease you got when you put your sausage in some expired pork pie sounds like a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon. Wrap your shit up and go see a doctor, ya moron.