PSFU request: Uncomplicated sex

After many years of riding the Fucktown Express Train liberally, I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as ‘uncomplicated sex’. Sex is loaded with implications, politics and semantics that reach far beyond the act of fist pumping genitals. Each step in the unraveling process carries with it at least two dozen mind-boggling puzzles that leave us in a platoon of pornographic perplexity.

Should I leave the lights on? Do you really want me to punch you in the face? No, that doesn’t really feel good… Should I text? Should I call? Will you think that I want to wear your mug as a mardi gras mask if I ask for a glass of water, instead of high-tailing it home within 2 minutes of seminal expulsion? 

There are so many do’s and don’ts. How did such a simple human act become such a shitstorm of complication, shame, regret, and awkward perfunctory sexual advances. 

If you’re too casual people assume you are a soulless conglomerate of promiscuity. If you’re too responsive, le genitals retract out of fear of your Bounce fabric-like clinginess. Lose, lose. 

I have no wise words to guide your sexual tidbits to perpetual bliss. This may be the most depressing post to-date, but as a self-proclaimed psychologist and a self-learned physiologist, I have done the leg-work, the research and the A-B multi-variant testing (nerd joke), and have no brilliant conclusion to splatter all over your hopeful faces. I suppose it’s asexuality until a proper solution reveals itself.  

 Good luck out there, champs.

Dear Mrs. Claus,

After many years of unrequited present receiving, I am finally aware of my misdoing. My fealty resided in the wrong Claus beneficiary, and I can only offer my irrevocable condolences for such a misstep. I know who wears the big red pajama jeans up in the North Pole, it’s you, it’s always been you.. 

So I’m sending you this lovely letter to unburden my wish list for this Whoreliday Season. After a year earmarked with saintly deeds, alcohol induced revelations, and high-fiving hobos that look like Jesus, I truly believe I deserve a sizable endowment in return. 

Besides the usual request for a yacht-ful of cash, as well as my own yacht aptly named ‘The H20 Commander’ or ‘Water, You My Bitch Now’, I have a few other prezzies mind…The cold winter nights have left me chaffed and chapped, and instead of using a heater or wearing a onesie, I prefer a more creative heat source like a friendly Bengal tiger to cuddle with or a comely NFL player who’s sole purpose is to embrace me as I succumb to melatonia. 

I would also like to be awarded with my very own Party Rock crew, much like the eccentric pop sensation LMFAO. It is very important that my gang of degenerates retain a constant blood alcohol level of .2, have matching tribal face tattoos, and be entrenched in glitter from every conceivable angle. 

Finally, I want you to hide a walkie-talkie in Broncos’ quarterback Tim Tebow’s bedroom, so that I can pose as Jesus and prank call him at all hours of the night. I will of course conduct my pranks with integrity, because I dare not mock the devout…

I’m already waiting patiently under the boughs of a synthetic Christmas tree for my gifts. I’ve also fedex-ed a Yule Log-shaped dildo to the North Pole as a token of my appreciation for all the gifts I fully expect to receive.

Mistletoe gropings and kisses,

PSFU

It’s that time of year again, where snow abounds, at least in Charlie Sheen’s orifices, and we warm our extremities near the fireplace to avoid a devastatingly cold 60 degree night in Southern California.

The time of year when tiny tots put their full faith in a white-haired man who will break into the homes of middle class suburbia and stuff stockings to the brim, and no I’m not talking about Santa.. this special psfu is for Mr. Jerry Sandusky.

Albeit this is not the most current twitter trend, but if there’s anything that Chris Hansen has taught me, it’s that there’s no bad time to chastise the creepy. He has also taught me that Mike’s Hard Lemonade is the rapist’s drink of choice…

With Sandusky’s new defense in tow, well, he’s just asking to be verbally castrated, by yours truly. Hygiene.. really? Is that what you were teaching the half-naked kiddie poos? You know what is better than teaching hygiene? — not rape.  

In fact a frothy dick milk bubble bath sounds like the direct opposite of hygienic… But I’m no CDC rep.

I’m no children’s advocate by any means either, if anything I think children are creepy and infinitely more intelligent than adults (those brilliant little motherfuckers).  But tales of pedophilia and sexual depravity irk me to the core. Only the true anal warts of the world would dare prey on little lambs. I can only wish 40 counts of terrifying jail-time sexual redemption towards the cripplingly gross Mr. Peen State.

It’s only fair, tis the season! 

The road to being liked is a rocky one—ice cream pun unintended. I’ve dealt with the heavy hand of blatant animosity for no apparent reason for days and years and such. Granted I’ve also dealt with aversion as a result of doling out casual rejections here and there. There are many a blue ball caused by my esteemed reproach, to which I offer my sincere condolences. #sorrybro.

But usually, I have the fun-tastic task of charming those that despise me right off the bat - especially with you foxy female folk. I can only assume I have the kind of face or disposition only a mother could love. It’s a daunting task, but me loves a challenge.

Dear Insecure Anal Fissure-ious Maximus,

I get it, I walk funny right? It’s the only thing I can assume, since I spent all but 30 seconds walking up to you and introducing myself, before your face became inflamed with rage, and is subsequently causing your makeup-hidden-blemish to resurface.

Is it the hairspray? One squirts too many? I get it, the stiffness of my hair is throwing you off your game, and you must remedy your delusion with a scowl and a snooty comment to dick-pump down my cochlea. I’ll try gel instead next time, okay? — so you can leave the below-the-breath whispers about my assumed sexual promiscuity or my imagined need for sclerotheraphy, at home. Tuck it away under your spanx and save it for a rainy day when I decide exact my bitchitude and shit on your life.

I have no coveted prize for you as a result of your non-dickbaggery, but wouldn’t you feel better about finding a real reason to hate me instead?

Here are a few legitimate reasons I will allow you to dislike me for:

-I can drink you under the table, and will dirty sanchez that fact all over your face.

-I wear an inordinate amount of glitter and will leave sparkly droppings in your car, on your cat, or across the keyboard of your brand new macbook. And I will do so unapologetically… 

-I am incapable of staying in one place or nailing a routine down due to the excessive amounts of caffeine I drink and a mildly serious case of attention deficit disorder. 

-I can eat like a Beluga whale and still comfortably fit into a bandage dress or a medium-sized ziploc bag. 

-You can try your darndest to plant your shitcloud of negativity right over me, and I will still remain awesome and seemingly unaffected… yet another symptom of my ADD.

If you need more ammunition, please email me and I will record a full day-in-the-life video for you to watch, and you should be able to pick up at least 600 new legitimate reasons to dislike me. Got it?

PSFU- underestimations

Sometimes no matter how many online dictionaries or discovery channel segments you masturbate to.. people just don’t believe you are intelligent. You could finish the Times crossword puzzle and spell out a dissertation on how to solve the obesity crisis in America in one solitary bowl of alphabet soup… and still people will think your brain is the size of grape nut. It’s truly unfortunate.. What powersuit and glasses combo does a brother have to sport to get a little recognition here?

How does one flex their intellectual junk in a way that is genuine, but not arrogant? 

Dear sir/madam,

I did indeed code that website by my lonesome while shoving fistfuls of acai berries into my mouth as a caffeine substitute. Where’s my motherfucking pat on the back? Maybe it’s not the most impressive thing I could’ve done, but I have a Humanities BA, bitch… and you don’t learn that shit in courses that focus on the rise of the celebrity in modern society. I would appreciate a salute to my mediocrity. I’m not your average nerd that spends 12 hours a day trolling online forums about Ruby on Rails.. I have strippers and cocaine to tend to. Just because a substantial portion of my life is spent in and out of consciousness, thanks to my penchant for champagne showers, DOES NOT MEAN you have the right to underestimate my prodigiousness!

Even that talking bobblehead, ceiling-eyes Bachmann gets called ‘misguidedly intelligent’ every now and again and she believes that the occurrence of pandemics like swine flu are directly related to the political party of the reigning chief executive officer… COME ON PEOPLE!

Big-ups to all the smart people that are pegged as ‘intellectually inept’ by their peers… the second we find a cure for cancer we are not sharing the formula… maybe.

<3 
psfu 

I’m back losers!

Like a bear (of the homosexual variety and not the ursus genus),  I needed a brief period of hibernation.

My proclivity for trouble has been off the charts recently. I’m not sure if it’s a symptom of trying to fastidiously cling to my fleeting youth.. or if it’s because my cosmo ‘how to live your life rectal thermometer’ had the naughty box checked off…

Request time motherfuckers!

Listen up, 

I know we’re kinda facebook friends.. or maybe we shared a cup of Hi-C and tequila at a party freshman year… or perhaps I fell onto your crotch at some point when the promptings of my PMS, a bucket of red wine and the threat of impending spinsterhood were far too much to bear… 

What I’m trying to say is that there is indubitably some context to our connection.. But you need to back off, sir/ma’am/future state senator. I’m just not that into you. If you couldn’t tell by my utter lack of acknowledgement to your ‘pokes’, ‘texts’, ‘smoke signals’, ‘helicopter dance moves’ or ‘mortality’.. I’m really not interested.

When you multi-bang my phone, email and status updates all day, not only do I become increasingly disinterested, I am also forced to assume that you want to cut my face off and wear it to your next birthday party or ship my head to Brad Pitt in a box… 

Get what I’m saying?

Let me break it down arithmetically in case you are a) Asian, or b) able to borrow one for a minute…

The sum of ‘you liking me’ is incongruent to the sum of ‘me liking you’. In fact the sum of ‘you liking me’ is exponentially larger than the product of ‘me liking you’ AND ‘me giving a flying fuck-nut that you are even alive’. Please take the derivative of the new inputs given, catch my tangent, and kindly fuck off. 

It’s that time of year again…

Leaves commit themselves to littering the gutter, my cup of coffee is 2 parts liquor and father time salutes me with a crisp bitchslap across the face….

Happy birthday to me!

What I’ve learned in life thus far: 

1. As you welcome old age with passive agressive approbation, you will come to learn that the most gratifying form of sex is probably the good ol’ hate fuck.

2. Alcoholism is the best way to cope with most ailments, including but not limited to: unemployment, mondays, medical bills, bachelordom, traffic, a misshapen torso, identity theft and tuesdays.

3. No amount of cats, kittens or feline-shaped dust balls will ever make you happy. Try alcohol instead (see above). 

4. Botox advertisements will start to entice and beckon. You will not.

5. There will always be someone who will more closely resemble a moldy prune than you do, misdirect all your negativity towards them. 

6. The pool of adjectives to describe you will dampen, as you regress from labels like ‘cute’ and ‘energetic’. People will present you with lackluster options like ‘classy’, ‘worldly’ and ‘charming’. 

7. You will find any opportunity/excuse to well up with tears ie: puppy birthdays, hallmark commercials, half yearly sales, American Idol and tea sandwiches.

8. Hangovers will shit on your life exponentially as you fossilize. It will take you up to a week to recover from a Girl’s night out or a thimble of whiskey.

9. You start to learn about subjects once foreign to you like: potpourri, epsom salt, palm pilots, wheatgrass and jazz music.

10. Sleeping with someone who is younger than you will not thwart the aging process, but it doesn’t incite it either. 

In all seriousness, I’ve still ‘got it’, so I welcome my downward spiral into antiquity. My health is intact, my friend base is rich, and I don’t look like a soggy bowl of cheerios quite yet. In fact, Myspace pedophiles still beseech my online friendship at least twice a day. 

After much introspection, I realized that I value making money more than anything else at the moment. Like a power-hungry i-Banker, I pledge my allegiance to all things material, as the dollar sign is the battery pack to my life. Unlike a power-hungry i-Banker, there is no cocaine or friendly neighborhood prostitute addiction fueling said drive. My desirous heart seeks financial gain to satiate my need to travel and explore every bulbous surface of Columbus’ exploits.  I also have an affinity for retail therapy, a drinking problem and an obesity issue in my midst, that require funding at an exponential rate… 

So in true psfu form, I am going to write a hypothetical letter to my boss to ask for a raise. Here I go…

Dear Boss,

As an employee of nearly over a month, I believe it is the appropriate time to ask for a raise. Although ramen packs, off-brand Oreo cookies and rubbing alcohol have kept me nourished and alive, my palate seeks refinement and variety. As I walk past shelves of Pepperidge Farm delights and produce not stolen from my neighbors garden, I can’t help but desire a pay spike or a bonus, for filling a swivel chair in your office. In exchange for said financial endowment, I promise to keep the busy status checked on my gchat, and to not flirt with the elderly lunch lady for extra layers of meat on my deli sandwiches. I will be a beacon of proper office conduct and pledge to only take naps with my eyes wide open, a skill that I am singularly able to provide. My strong work ethic and collection of unflattering sweater vests will weather any future obstacle you choose to micromanage.

Needless to say, I have already proven myself to be a stellar employee. My timecards can deceptively verify that I arrive and depart on-time every day, with the exactitude of a heart surgeon. It should also be noted that I have rejected any and all forms of handholding and tutelage, as I am neither affectionate, nor able to learn how to do anything without the help of youtube tutorials or yahoo answers. My friends have labeled me a ‘go-getter’ as I have the tenacity of a Spartan, a characteristic that will greatly benefit your company. Albeit, the ‘go-getter’ title may or may not have been appointed with the sole purpose of describing my behavior at buffets and esteemed restaurants…

Let us remember that I did save the company a total of 150 dollars this month, as I cunningly fixed the fax machine by Swiffer dusting the output tray and fist pumping the device into submission. If you would kindly sign off on a 50%-75% pay increase, I will gladly flash you some upper thigh or write you a kind, but succinct ‘thank you’ post-it, as a reflection of my gratitude. 

Your help in this matter is much appreciated, and will soon be forgotten. 

My humblest apologies regular people, I have been MIA for far too long. As I shimmy towards a higher age bracket, my time management skills and thirst for attention, runneth dry. I have a pile of requests and here is my attempt at setting your insignifcant problems free. I’m like a hamster-sized Dr. Phil…

Rant request: Couples

If you are 1/2 of a couple, I am sorry, as your presence has been requested on the chopping block. After many pensive poses and promptings to my synapses to fire off, I have decided to find a happy compromise for the anti-couple people out there. The prolific Bugs Bunny once said “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em”. To snag yourself a mate, write them this romantic love letter:

Dear Shim,

This is more or less a proposal of epic proportions. As you and I near closer to being bitter, cynical, and a few modest clicks away from purchasing jeggings, I beseech you..let’s just tie the knot. The two-become-one club isn’t so bad, if you think about it. I will most likely notify someone if you choke on a pretzel, and you will always have a microwave-dinner companion. We will argue about tv shows and about how much booze is ‘too much’, because mundane happenings, make the world go ‘round.

Just face it…you will soon be humbled by life, as you start your descension into looking a little more like Santa Claus every day. You might as well find someone who will love you and your psoriasis flare ups and adult acne… Am I right?

I promise to indulge in hot wax aesthetics, if you promise to stick to light beer and to use deodorant on a regular basis. Our sex life may diminish, but think about all that extra time we’ll have to watch CSI and Soviet Spy thrillers on Netflix. All things considered, I’m offering you a chance to step outside of your world of sexual depravity and liberal masturbation, and cozy up with a steamy pile of monogamy and granny panties. Act quickly, as I can already see flecks of your shiny skull cap where tufts of thick hair used to be. 

<3

So.. marry me?

Here’s to you—wildchild freak of politically incorrect nature. To the ones who bang out with their wang out, and spend entirely too much time pursuing whatever vivid desires lie deep beneath the stitchings of their underpants or cranial subderma . To electric masses that shout and sizzle and scream and pavement-fuck the ground when they walk. To the unconventional and alternative trying desperately to mold themselves into categories ‘normal’ and ‘bland’…

PSFU convention.

This is not my Sum 41-like ‘middle finger salute to establishment’. And neither still is it a ‘I spend thousands of dollars on unnecessary orthodontistry because I am both affluent and a hipster’ type of rant either. Fuck subculture and cliques and groups and any amalgamation of douchebees with a label. I’m so very tired of being pen-fated into a specific category that makes me easy to comprehend. I’m not just one thing, bro. I’m a whole Olympic-rings orgy of venn diagrams trying to populate a race of a thousand multi-color punched out circles, bitch. I’m tired of hearing kick to the crotch statements like: “I never realized you were smart because you party like you’ve never heard of AIDS” or “I thought you were a bitch because you dress like the prostitutes on Law and Order SVU”. Trying to prove that I’m more than what tiny incomprehensible minds decide to label me as is getting pretty exhausting.

There are tons of human contradictions out there, so why is it so very difficult to understand that I am a mind-fuck personified. Look at Shaun White—a ginger and I’m fairly certain he has a soul. See? Stereotype shattered… People can surprise you everyday. Can’t I dress like a 2-cent trick and still get off reading political dissertations in the comfort of my own home? Can’t I know every juicy detail of Ryan Reynolds imdb profile and still answer every goddamn Jeopardy question about the French Revolution? Can’t I be equal parts provocateur and still know exactly what L’Hopital’s Rule is without having to google-fuck the shit out of online calculus forums? Shame on you society for your hasty conclusions and cliche’d labeling. SHAME ON YOU! 

I assume most of you are still recovering from a bout of patriotic liver annihilation delivered by an onslaught of keg-planking and tongue-fucking the bottom of a Jack Daniels bottle.

If you’re any kind of decent American, a firefighter only recently pulled you out of a PBR soaked brick-pit wearing the scorched remnants of an American flag snuggie and 2/3 of a condom. Any other Tuesday morning awakening is a slap in the face to everything our fine Nation stands for and such…apple pies and things..

I’m usually first in line to drink in the name of America or freedom or Mondays. There really there is no excuse too mind-bogglingly insignificant to get my mouth, in and around a lascivious libation. But this 4th of July, I was unable to partake in such funtivities. I feel wholly un-American as I had to practice this thing called ‘self-control’ on the infamous day America threw their deuces up at England.

Fortunately, I have a solution for my misdoings and reprehensible behavior. I’m going to get straight up belligerent and unfortunate this week. The universe has done me a solid and placed into my lap 6 whole days of vacation before I start work next Monday. If I were a bottle of tequila and what residue is left of my liver right now, I would be terrified.

Here are a few reasons why you should feel compelled to help me with my cause: 

—Remember that time I lent you a dollar? I could tabulate the interest, but wouldn’t you prefer paying me back by making a margarita in my mouth? 

—Your 3-day weekend beastly hangover only has one cure: karmic retribution. Win karmic points by hosing my trap down with bacardi. 

—Chances are, I will do something hilarious while intoxicated, you could film it, and we could be famous on youtube. By ‘we’ I mean ‘me’ and by ‘me’ I mean ‘my failed attempt at naked ghost-riding a ducktour bus’.

—Nothing says God Bless America quite like watching a gnome-sized Asian girl getting shit-hammered-face-planked on a Tuesday afternoon. NOTHING!

PSFU Request: Stage 5 Clingers

There are dozens of unattractive qualities that us mere mortals possess, including those that are bred deep in the under belly of insecurity. Clingerism is one, fortunately a curable one if you practice as I preach. Start every morning with a hearty breakfast and a bushel of high fives in the mirror… Repeat the last step as you peruse your short list of life accomplishments, including not dying in your sleep and such. 

As a member of the vagina subset of gender classification, you may think it’s ironic that I have a distaste for clingers. But contrary to popular belief, even females would prefer if you left your saran wrap likeness at the door…please? If I am busy, I am busy and no amount of whiney coercion can clear my schedule. Please stave off your incessant texting if I just met you 25 minutes ago, it leaves me with the impression you will show up at my door with a scalpel and duct tape so you can fashion a mask out of my face. 

If we go out on a date, we are not officially official the next day. We are not mayflies; don’t rush it, compadre. The latter is unsettling as well, if you don’t call for 3 weeks I will forget you exist. Let’s just find a happy medium between 1-504 hours, shall we?

I understand it’s tough, as the promptings in your scrotum lead you down the path of being a clingy motherfucker, but I advise you to seek solace in a bottle of KY and a hanky. 

I understand there are multiple ways to reach the victims of your unflinching relentlessness, but I personally don’t enjoy the communication channel gang bang when you text, fb message and call me. 

I realize this post will likely scare everyone away, thereby leaving me alone to die in subleased apartment with 100 cats I’m allergic to. So it goes..

But heed my fair advice ladies and gents, desperation is not very attractive. You don’t have to abide by specific dating rules my MTV-generationers, just try not to be a creep. 

In lieu of publishing Post #69 I will not be writing about Blum Integers like you all hoped. Instead I will be fulfilling a psfu request that is the perfect compliment to post #68. 

Request: How would you advertise yourself on an online dating site.

Dear Phallus-Wielding Warriors,

I am asian. I know that piqued the interest of at least 95% of you. And not a bad looking one at that… there we go—up 3%. I am equal parts slut and prude, and pride myself on possessing ambivalent personality traits to add to the mind-fuck that is the ‘feminine mystique’. I am vulgar but can mask said vulgarities for special occasions like babysitting and state funerals. I’m a perpetual dabbler, as I have the attention span and direction of a one-winged fruit fly. I’ve been known to skateboard in miniskirts, steal waves from territorial brosefs, paint like a highly evolved 2nd grader, dance like a stripper-robot, and drink like the rapture cometh at least once a week. I’m irresponsible yet completely on top of my shit, and will dazzle you with epic bursts of mediocrity. I shop for clothing in the lingerie section, which I believe adds to my debilitating charm. I also shop for clothing in the children section, to preempt my penchant for buffets and multi-layer fatty foods.

To give you insight on what to expect if you wish to join me on the journey where two become one—where rose petals and hair-pulling become sweatpants and passive aggression, here are a few things I’ve added to my bucketlist:

-organize a medieval crosswalk sword fight

-successfully complete an Edward 40-hands challenge

-make it rain—without the immediate sting of financial destitute

-drive a stick-shift in San Francisco without inflicting pain or death on any hipsters

-party in Ibiza sans ropa

-learn one language per continent.. i’d settle for one convincing accent per continent as well. 

-have one well-spent day, completely devoid of sarcasm….*eye roll*

-enter and leave a shark fight, unscathed 

-write a sick novel, bro

-paint a replica of the Sistine Chapel ceiling but have the one dude, high-fiving the other dude instead. I’m a modernist.

Alright, I’m done bragging about my future endeavors and potential awesomeness. I may just be the absolute worst person you will ever meet. Call me! …please?

I’ve recently been approached by an online dating agency about applying my verbal winning to their blue-balled masses. They believe I ‘have what it takes’ to be an online love guru. They asked me to do my charitable part to help men ‘get theirs’ by writing love letters to future cat ladies with just the right amount of finesse to get their ovaries fist-pumping.

Special kudos to me for writing like I’m wielding a foreskin sword or a mushroom-shaped bazooka. I do agree that I possess the dangerous combination of having a vagina and the borderline abhorrent, vulgarity and speech of a real-life Van Wilder. It’s a gift, I suppose. I declined the opportunity, as it for a lack of a better explanation, gave me the heebie jeebies. But here is a usable template for the clueless men out there that want to boost their editorial appeal and understanding of what women really want.

Hi my name is ____,

I like sex. In fact, I like sex so much, I’ve spent the equivalent dollar amount of 1.5 bottles of protein powder, to optimize the pool of applicants that want a one-way ticket to fucktown on my trouser pony. I understand that sexual encounters can be bartered for things like hand-holding and sushi dinners, which I am willing to offer. Special arrangements will have to be made if said sushi dinners are followed by 2 hours of movie watching of the Rom-Com variety, as such activities deeply sadden Mr. trouser pony. You must be willing to forgive me for my emotional unavailability and sad attempts to dispute said emotional unavailability. C’est la vie.

I’ve been known to be spontaneous, and can prove said attractive attribute by suavely ordering a Jack & Coke one minute and a Heineken the next. Keep the bitches guessing, that’s my motto. I will never ignore you in front of my friends, but I may engage you in a fun game where I pretend you are invisible, while my hommies are present. But please keep in mind, it is just a game, and not a testament to my affection. I enjoy partaking in calorie burning activities including, intense beer pong tourneys and masturbation. I will forever believe that a print-out of my checking account is a sexual conduit and can provide said print-out if it will speed up the panty-dropping process. I will also forever believe my stature and penis are exactly 1.5 inches larger than their actuality, and expect you to go along with said disillusion.

I may respect you and adore you with a Van Gogh-like intensity, but am reluctant to show said affections out of fear for a swift drop kick to my cardiovascular unit. Withhold sex for exactly 3.5 weeks and I will be yours forever. Please message me before I start to bald.

Yours truly,

Hornypants McMidlife crisis

There comes a time in every little girls life, when you have to say “Fuck you, ass-hat”, and take those sweet cheeks eastbound and down.

And NOW, is one of those moments. I’d like to commemorate it with a rant because there is nothing I enjoy more than shoving my half-baked pretension down your pie hole.

And much to your dismay, I’m not referencing a cheating boyfriend or a girlfriend who “omg totes wore the same dress as me”. I’m referencing my very own grown-up job. I’m 2.5 ulcers deep and really over working for my manager who is a sorry excuse for a carbon footprint. To add insult to more insult, I’m running out of artful ways to verbally express my contempt for said penile implant.

So here’s my notice of ‘peacing-outage’. I realize some of you may actually try to send this to my boss or may think, what if he finds out? Well, if you do send it, you will forever live in the shadow of my awesomeness and you will live out your life as the human equivalent of a pile of festering dog shit on a hot sidewalk. Cool beans?

Dear ****

I’ve fantasized about my moment of resignation, ever since you asked me if I was sure that it was a ‘website’ and not a ‘webcite’. Our subsequent encounters only served to sharpen my desire to want to jam a stapler into my left eyeball. I thank you for the immense amount of self-control you’ve empowered me with. It is remarkably difficult to not kick you square in the taquito, every single time you inhale. And although, I have enough terrible things to say about you to fill all of the empty alcohol bottles and condom wrappers in Tara Reid’s basement. I leave you with this…

Someday, in the not-too-distant future, I will be a millionaire. And not one of those benevolent son-of-a-bitch millionaires that plants trees and drives a whole family of Priuses. I’m going to be a complete snatch about it. I’m going to gather the fattest stack of bills I can hold in my oompa loompa-sized fist and I’m going to totally smack you with it. I can’t imagine a more humiliating defeat for you, other than your complete lack of talent and overall potato shape. It won’t even be a violent slap, but the echo of humiliation will live on forever.

Peace out Dickbox! I’m gonna urinate on your swivel chair!