When I was eight, I found out Santa wasn’t real because Judy Blume is a fucking dick and threw it in Superfudge, a book meant for god damn third graders. After crying uncontrollably for hours with the newfound knowledge that an obese old man was, in fact, not sneaking into my house at night once a year, I truly believed that there could not be anything that was a bigger lie than that. Well, much to the disappointment of my eight-year-old self, the relatively brief twenty years I’ve spent on this planet have shown me that there are muchbigger lies that we all get told, and each one is a major blowjob – not the kind you get, the kind you have to give.
“You can grow up to be whatever you want.”
I mean come on. What are we doing to the children of our society here? For the entirety of my childhood, I wanted to be a professional baseball player, and because of the abundance of horse shit that gets fed to us as children, my dumb ass actually thought I had a shot. Then when I was twelve, I realized that I was eight inches shorter, sixty pounds lighter, and not nearly as good as the best baseball players I saw. So, you know what someone should have told me? “Hey, bud, you’re not going to hit puberty until you’re sixteen. That means that when kids start throwing eighty-five mile-an-hour fastballs to you, even if you’re able to make contact, the absolute best you’re going to get out of it is a pussy blooper single because you’re 5’1” and weigh 115lbs. Time to pick a new dream, dork.” Mean? Yes. True? Absofuckinglutely. There are exceptions to this, but if we really could grow up to be whatever we wanted, I guarantee you there wouldn’t be any urologists out there. No shot any seven-year-old sits there and thinks, “I’d really like to look at diseased cocks all day.” Nope, that’s a choice they make when they realize being a 5’6” suburban white kid who can’t shoot is not a direct path to the NBA.
“Just be yourself. Girls will like you for who you are.”
What an absolute crock of shit. I mean seriously. I’m sure there are some guys out there that actually can be themselves and attract a woman, but let’s face it, that is not true for the vast majority of dudes. I’ll use myself as an example. I’ve never won over a single girl by just being myself, and that is an absolute fact. Would you like to know why? If it were up to me, I’d be able to walk up to a girl that I’m interested in and say, “Get a load of this monster I put in the toilet this morning,” and she’d be hooked. I’m not saying that’s something that anyone should find enticing, but I find that hilarious, and if girls really did like guys for who they are, that line wouldn’t have ended up with me soaked in a Vodka-Cran. Just kidding, I haven’t used that line. If I continue to strike out with the frequency that I’ve become accustomed to, though, I might have to say, “Fuck it,” and try it out. But that’s who I am. The circulation of thoughts that come into my brain look something like this: Poop joke. Dick joke. Boobs. Masturbation commentary. Poop joke combined with dick joke. Boobs. Bigger boobs.That’s all there is going on up there, and for some fucking reason, I was told by anyone and everyone that “being myself” was a great way to get a girl to be into me. Well, society, the next time I make fun of my sub-par peen in front of a girl, and it her panties drop to the beer-soaked basement floor, I’ll let you know.
“Guys don’t have to worry about sexism.”
I beg to fucking differ. Hear me out. Women definitely take the brunt of the sexism issue. But I’d like to talk about a rule that exists for men everywhere. When I take a piss, I have to both lift the seat AND put it back down, and if that isn’t sexism, I don’t know what is. Not only am I not allowed to try out my aim at a smaller target, which I can absolutely hit, but I can’t just flush, run the water so that anyone listening thinks that I washed my hands, and walk out? That gets me all kinds of irked. I get it that if a girl goes into the bathroom, she doesn’t want to end up falling into the toilet, but guess what? I take, on average, two shits a day, and the first things I do are make sure that there is toilet paper and make sure the seat is down. Why? Well, the first check is because I’ve had one too many experiences slightly crouched down with my arms out like a gorilla making sure no part of my ass touches the pants I’m wearing as I waddle around in desperate search of TP. The second check – the one that’s relevant here – is because even though me or someone else falling into the bathroom version of a Dunk Tank is comedic gold, the shock that comes with it is what I imagine a stroke feels like, and I’m already one more close Phillies game away from a heart condition. I don’t need that fucking stress. So yeah, if I can make sure that my ass isn’t going to take a plunge into cold toilet water, so can you, ladies.