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| New York City has got the loudest, pushiest women in the world. Mostly, they have got trumpet voices that can break glass like a Memorex commercial. I used to believe that all that screaming hysteria was counterproductive. My idea was to draft these broads into federal charm schools to teach them to talk like normal women and use the traditional female qualities of charm to achieve their aims. In addition, they would learn what to do with their hair, and learn not to go into the subway with sleeveless blouses exposing huge glops of roll-on deodorant when they lift their arms to hold the rail. Ugh! It’s not an appealing package. It’s not exactly a European runway show, y’know what I mean? The prevailing view held among New York girls is: I’m tough. Why should I resort to decadent European subterfuge when I can get right in your face and scare the shit out of you with my big mouth? God gave me a powerful set of lungs and two fists. You don’t like it? Forget you! Now, like so much of female delirium, this used to amount to a bunch of deluded nonsense. They are never going to get the edge on a 220 lb. male dummy with pierced ears and a fistful of silver rings. Nevertheless, in the last few years, due to the enhanced police procedures established by Police Commissioners William Bratton and Ray Kelly, most of the bad guys are jerking off in jail cells up in Poughkeepsie and Ossining, turning New York City into a mostly demilitarized zone. This has opened up vast opportunities for the biggest mouth to prevail. And nobody can touch the women of New York for bone-chilling loudmouth screaming. You think I’m kidding? Then you obviously haven’t seen the Internet video showing ex-Mets superstar Art Shamsky being chased down the street by his ex- wife, Kim, who is being forced by court order to pay him millions in alimony after he divorced her, citing (what else?) hysterical screaming fits. She is getting a taste of what women have been doing to men since time immemorial, taking them to the cleaners. And she is finding it a very bad fit. “You faggot! You mutherfucker!” she is seen to be screaming. “I had to have my uterus removed because of the unholy sexual diseases you transmitted to me, you bastard!” In court papers she filed against him, Kim Shamsky accuses Art Shamsky of engaging in sexual improprieties involving women, men and any various combination of the denizens of the Bronx Zoo. Hey, why not? All’s fair in love and war. The days of Ralph Kramden threatening Alice with a one-way flight to the moon are anthropological history. Art Shamsky is running away and not even talking back. Only, this peaceable reaction on the part of the men is not being reciprocated by a lessening of the volume on the part of the females. Indeed, they have seized the initiative. Translation: the women win. Men are anthropologically too stupid to learn how to talk back. I see the evidence of men’s brutish incompetence everywhere I look. The women have got all the money and all the power. The men are getting their salaries attached to pay child support, and they still get daily phone calls from the mothers of their children drafting them into involuntary servitude. “Pick up your daughter from school, you knucklehead, I’m going out with my girlfriends.” I used to do the payroll, and I know how many guys are having their salaries attached to pay child support. It’s not a pretty picture. Men are working two jobs, and they are still broke and living in dingy basement apartments, and sweating it out. It shouldn’t have to be that way. In Scandinavian countries the state picks up the majority of the expenses for bringing up kids in one-parent families. People are always screaming about the population decline and the future projected manpower shortage, but they are allowing kids to suffer and holding a gun to the fathers’ heads. We are living according to the law of the jungle, rich people being off the hook for paying their fair share for social welfare. They say, “Why should I pay if that guy can’t keep it in his pants?” Well, I’ll tell you why: in a civilized society everybody has to pay to give children a decent life without subjecting the father to a lifetime of slavery. As Hillary Clinton wrote, “It Takes A Village”. Forcing one guy to pay the whole cost of a kid from a failed relationship for his entire life, while hedge fund traders are paying taxes at the rate of 15% is an abomination, and the voracious mendacity of some women to intentionally trap guys into a life of servitude just makes it worse. When times were good, the women were more discriminating about the suckers they chose. In order to get a date you practically needed to have a tee-shirt printed up showing your financial statement. Now that times are tough, any idiot can get a date so long as he has a paying job. Forget about cigarette boats and a house in the Hamptons. The dividing line today is job or no job. But the rule is the same – the girl has got a crowbar to pry you loose from your money. Nothing personal… You don’t hear too much any more about woman saying “I’m high maintenance” One time I had this ol’girl tell me “I’m high maintenance.” I told her, “I got a horse that’s high maintenance”. These days women are happy to latch on to any maintenance. Forget about a guy who’s suave and debonair. These days a guy could have an extra foot growing out of his head, but if he’s got a paying job he’s suddenly appealing. A blue collar is all of a sudden a sought-after fashion accessory. Bond traders and bankers are out and butchers are in. Especially butchers: a scientific study from France (where else?) recently showed that female chimpanzees are more inclined to give sex to males who give them meat, which motivates the males to be more aggressive hunters. Give them some meat, and they’ll beat your meat.Since our females are themselves not too far removed from the animal kingdom, this is a good reason to show up for your next date with a couple of nice, thick rib steaks instead of clutching a bouquet of useless flowers. I know I’m not politically correct, but political correctness is going to be the next victim of the economy, as people find they have more pressing issues to worry about. May it die and never return. As if to add insult to injury, women have also taken over the news media 100%. Every time you pick up a newspaper, you end up getting a lesson in civilized behavior from some nitwit female. From The New York Post, you get: a daily morality lecture from Andrea Peyser reflecting 50 year- old blue collar Queens moral values; a calcified, sclerotic Cindy Adams referring to Icelandic composer-singer-musician Bjork as an immoral “piece of excrement”; Michele Malkin excoriating liberals and waxing nostalgic for the administration of Big Superdummy Supremo George W. Bush. OK, what do you expect? At 50¢ it’ s cheaper than a comic book. The Post itself admits it’s a piece of worthless horseshit. Recently, in response to a lawsuit brought by a disgruntled former employee (what other kind is there?), The Post was forced to admit in a court filing that it encouraged its “journalists” to accept graft in order to keep salaries low. It’s pay to play all the way, which is so hysterical about The Post complaining about grafting politicians. That’s what keeps publicists in business, cash payments to Cindy Adams and Page Six to give a favorable plug to a new show or restaurant. Last year, when Yanks slugger Jason Giambi admitted to a web site that the Yanks were prancing around the locker room like a bunch of sissies in gold lamé thong panties, the Post sportswriters killed the story, which is a good joke if I ever saw one, when the Swinebrenner brothers, Tweedledee and Tweedledumber, threatened to cut off their free Yankee passes. But if The Post is a useless piece of fish wrapping, The New York Times is infinitely more invidious because it masquerades as a serious news organ. Never mind that The Times long ago lost its marbles. Controlled by the inbred Sulzberger family, which has been marrying cousins in order to keep their money in the family for so many generations that they are beginning to resemble the inbred, moronic inhabitants of an Appalachian trailer colony, The Times is hemorrhaging money faster than a sieve, and since people under pressure are inclined to say extraordinary things, its editorial policy has adopted a more convoluted grab bag of politically correct constructions than a Prospect Park parenting website is able to conceive. It’s a mess, with female rabbis and gay marriage announcements competing for space with a stable of brain- addled neo-conservative columnists who leave even Republicans holding their heads in amazement. Naturally, right at the top is a myopic insistence on gender- bending role equality that flies in the face of hundreds of millions of years of sexual evolution. I don’t have anything against sexual equality issues, aside from a distaste for the whole concept of identity politics per se, and the idea that a news organization would attempt to peddle them so aggressively in an effort to mainstream what I essentially believe to be fringe attitudes, I find not only counterproductive but also endlessly tedious. Maybe I have fallen behind the times, but I’m comfortable with the Clinton- era concept of “don’t ask don’t tell” and Obama’s program of civil unions between consenting adults (including men and women, like me and my girlfriend). But The Times, with its unhinged insistence on exploration of new frontiers of social irrelevance, is a total bore. Maybe the writers there feel bad that they had missed out on the culture wars by playing it too safe, and are now trying belatedly to assert their relevance, even as the rest of us have passed along to something else. Basically, The Times employs mediocre writers of both genders. It’s criteria for hiring staff rest on their academic credentials, an Ivy League diploma seeming to be the standard, even as they admit that due to grade inflation a high grade-point average in school is indicative of nothing more than assiduous attendance in class, which any idiot can achieve. But The Times’ stated goal of leveling the playing field in favor of promoting women and minorities has led to some astounding gaffes, which reflect on the reliability of their reporting and commentary. Jayson Blair, the cokehead reporter exposed for deranged fabrication of front- page news stories comes to mind. More recently, the bizarre case of Judith Miller, who was found to have acted as a conscious shill for the Bush administration’s campaign of disinformation, published a whole series of fictitious front-page articles relating to Saddam Hussein’s alleged nuclear capacity that The Times endorsed even though she was blatantly deranged. “I do what I want”, she bragged. The Times was finally forced to unceremoniously kick Miller out the back door, even as they were covering up another tacky story concerning Susan Sachs, the Baghdad bureau chief who, finding herself on the losing of bureaucratic infighting, decided to send some “anonymous” emails to the wives of Times reporters, informing them that their husbands were involved in a little extracurricular hanky-panky with Iraqi women. These “anonymous” missives were traced back to her in about a New York minute, and she as well ended up with boot prints on her butt. I once had a female colleague of well-below average intelligence who thought she was a freakin genius. She was pushy, and when she spoke she honked like a flock of wild geese flying over Rockaway. She was a typical blowhard New Yorker in the mould of Eliot “I am a fuckin bulldozer” Spitzer. Just for fun, I asked her, “Did it ever occur to you that you might be able to accomplish more just using intelligence and charm to achieve your goals?” She replied, “That would be dishonesty”. Naked aggression and coarse intimidation dressed up as honesty and tough love are the standard operating procedures of the day. Remember Sarah Palin’s line about the difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull terrier being the lipstick? Obama’s rejoinder: dress up a pig with lipstick and it’ s still a pig. Speaking of screaming, pushy females, here is one last example from the hallowed corridors of The New York Times. Managing editor Jill Abramson was reported by Page Six of The Post (it’s gotta be true!) to have gotten into a screaming match at a dinner party with a playwright whose show had been savaged by The Times. “The Times is the arbiter of good taste in New York,” she screamed hysterically, which must have done wonders for the digestion of the other diners. Not long after, this arbiter of good taste was standing in the gutter on West 46th Street, waiting for the light to change and yakking on her cell phone, when she got her foot run over and broken by that ultimate New York status symbol of good taste, a garbage truck! Good taste, give me a break! Historically, the American female has seen herself as the civilizing influence needed to smooth out the rough edges of American manhood. Where this comes from, I don’t know. It seems to me to be just another puritan punishment exacted to wreck people’s enjoyment of life. Frankly, I’d rather be in Philadelphia. No female qualities visible to me would seem to suggest such an exalted social status. One time, I inadvertently brushed a bleached- blonde suburban Republican woman in a crowded store with a gym bag I was lugging around. She suggested that I apologize to her, but this being New York and sometimes crowded, I ignored her, at which point she started screaming “You motherfucking faggot!” That type of etiquette lesson I can do without. Now, with the absolute and utter collapse of the triumphalist Anglo- Saxon business model and concomitant social breakdown, our whole concept of social interaction may be due for a reassessment, purely in terms of effectiveness, if not quality of life. |
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CHUCHA LIBRE
| 200motels POLITICS |
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| Seen from Lower Manhattan, Jersey City has got what is developing into a fabulous skyline. There’s a ferry service that leaves from the World Financial Center every couple of minutes, so I decided to hop on and check things out. Naturally, I ended up in the bar of the W Hotel, where I met an enchanting Jersey-ite named Gloria. She had everything I love in a woman: big hair, big tits, big booty, big bag of drugs. Naturally, she also had a big mouth. I let her talk. Nothing I had to say was likely to penetrate her anyway. The key to being a good conversationalist these days is to let the other person do all the talking. What the hell, nobody has anything even remotely interesting to say. The idea was to ply her with drinks, let her talk until she has exhausted all her hot air and then hop on top of her. New Jersey is the new California. It’s hedonism, great beaches, enormous houses, boob jobs and barbecue grills. California has grown too intellectual, so New Jersey has stepped in to stand up for mental idiocy. I have a cousin who attended Princeton, Schmuckley Dorkman, and his contribution to culture, aside from editing some really vicious right- wing literature for morons, has been a book he wrote about how great it is to be the son of a great man. The book sank like a stone on the day of its release. Einstein lived in New Jersey, but his brains do not appear to have rubbed off on the general population. When I mentioned this to Gloria, at great risk to my future ambitions for her, she told me, “I know. I have one of his carpets in my home”. Everything’s big in New Jersey: meal portions, movie seats, automobiles. Brains, not so much. Frank Zappa once wrote “Everything over a mouthful is wasted”. In New Jersey, any intelligence that is not needed for making money is superfluous. Look, who am I to complain? My whole goal was to bounce on Gloria like a trampoline. How much brains do you need to accomplish that? Just get her loaded and pay the bill. It ain’t exactly E=mc2. So, that’s what happened. After a harrowing car ride with Gloria driving, we arrived at the monster mansion that she shared with her two kids, courtesy of her ex-husband, who certainly must feel like an animal in a steel trap, only instead of being snared by the leg, he got caught by another feature of his anatomy. Essentially, she pulled the lever and hit the jackpot for life. Gloria’s ex must feel happy he got away at all, because she never stopped talking for a minute about spas, nail parlors, the Bahamas, her kids, her friends’ kids. I mean, I could take it for a couple of hours, but a whole day? Fuggedaboutit! Anyway, we finally got down to the main event. I took off my pants, and she disdainfully laughed, “Oh dear! You can’t be serious. Oh my! This won’t do at all. My dear man, let me give you some advice. You need some Natural Male Enhancement. Listen, I’m tired now. The bus stop is a couple of miles down the road. Good bye.” Slam! OK, I admit it. All the years I have spent in the gym have reduced the visual impact of my male sexuality relative to my muscularity. There are machines to pump up arms, legs, back, chest, etc., but for the male dick, nothing. That’s like building a super- powerful weapons delivery system but forgetting to activate the warhead. All these years I have been working out to impress women, but then the moment of decision finally arrives and the matador is revealed to be in the bullring without a sword. To make matters worse, the ornery, contrarian impulse of women is to confuse matters more. For years they hounded us that they were insisting on more foreplay before the main event, so men bought books and took tutorial lessons on where the clitoris was located and how to satisfy the little bugger. It took years of practice. Now the clitoris is out of fashion. When was the last time you heard about it? Now the fashion has changed. Women want to be pounded hard by big dicks. They took a poll (an appropriate term if ever there was one) that revealed that women in Israel want big, voluminous dicks while the girls in the Czech Republic are insisting on getting pulverized by a human jackhammer. I was getting more depressed by the minute, until I happened upon a television infomercial for Dr. Rompeculo’s Natural Male Enhancement Program, a combination of pill therapy and growth stimulation by means of a kind of bicycle horn, where you stick your little thing inside and squeeze the bulbous rubber pump, creating a vacuum that expands it. Hey, everything has elasticity, right? The commercial showed a boring-looking dude just like me surrounded by a group of slavish, attentive bikini-clad beauties who were falling all over themselves to do whatever they could to please him. The girls were motioning with their hands to express the size of his thing and referring to measuring tapes and even yardsticks. I said, “That stuff is for me”, and got my credit card ready while I phoned the 800 phone number. So when the package arrived at my house, I immediately took the whole packet of pills and inserted my little pecker in the bicycle pump, blowing it up to the point where a red light indicating “Danger” started flashing on the gauge. Hell, I was going for broke, and if venturing into the Neutral Zone to get back in Gloria’s good graces was what it took, I was going to shoot the moon. Just to be sure, I took a half-dozen old Viagra tablets that I had been saving for a rainy day. Miraculously, after about an hour of squeezing the rubber pump, I felt my member start to grow in length and thickness until it could no longer be contained within the confines of the bicycle horn. When I withdrew it, I was shocked to see that it had taken on the rich aubergine color and firm texture of a boudin noir blood pudding from the Mortagne au Perche region of northern France. It glistened and throbbed like a serpeant extending from a tree in the Garden of Eden, proffering a huge red apple in its mouth. Excitedly, I thought, “Let me get into the batter’s box with this Louisville Slugger and I’ll knock a grand slam homer out of the park that will send A-Rod into a paroxysm of batter’s envy eclipsing even his jealousy of Derek Jeter. I quickly dressed, making sure to wear baggy pants to give my little newfound friend room to breathe, though he seemed to be struggling to break out like the baby Alien monster which he resembled except for the teeth, as it chewed through the guy’s stomach in the science fiction movie. Now Gloria will be forced to prostrate herself in groveling worship of my Latex Solar Beef! On my way to the subway station, I happened to notice the morcillón sausage on display in the window of Julio’s Spanish Butcher Shop on Amsterdam Avenue. Right there on the sidewalk, I unzipped my pants and released the raging monster within. It’s reflection on the window pane gave the illusion that it was right in the display case next to the coiled sausage, filling me with masculine pride. This was a meal that any Spanish housewife would be proud to present on the family supper table! I rushed to Port Authority Bus Terminal and took the New Jersey Transport bus to Gloria’s mansion. Arriving there, I ignored the doorbell and used my dick as a doorknocker. BAM BAM BAM! Gloria answered the door. “What, you again?” she said scornfully. But when she saw the gift I was bearing, she screamed in startled admiration: “Oh my G*d! What a beauty! I haven’t seen anything like that since I was in high school! Are you sure you’ re not Italian?” “No, but I eat a lot of calzone.” “That must be how you got those giant meatballs”. She said, “Let me call my girlfriend Anita to come over – I don’t know if I can handle all that myself. You’ll love Anita. She’s been on “Real Housewives of New Jersey. “Hello, Anita? Come over right away. I got a real Italian Stallion here [I hope you don’t mind me telling her that you’re Italian], and I need help. On your way, could you stop at Walgreen’s and pick up a large tube of KY Jelly?” In the meantime, I couldn’t wait for Anita. My cock was throbbing with hunger. Dragging Gloria over to her couch, I told her “Bend over and spread em’, baby, here comes my bullet!” I slammed it into her, BAM BAM BAM! Then I shoved it into her as far as I could and started to grind it around. “Oh oh oh”, she screamed. “Omigod omigod! Harder harder! O papi, you’re the boss!” Now I was in the driver’s seat. I pulled it almost all the way out and wiggled it around until she begged me for more. “You want some more? Well, here’s some more!” BAM BAM BAM! “Who’s your daddy?” “You are! You are!” “Are you my sex slave?” “Oh yeah! My butt belongs to you. Just don’t stop!” BAM BAM BAM! All of a sudden, while I was pounding her like a racehorse, with hard thrusts of my pulsing equine member, she went into hysteria, screaming so hard it scared me: “Give it to me. Give it to me in the trunk of my SUV! Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! Omigod omigod omigod! Give it to me! Leather laces! Bamboo canes! Give me the electric pony harness! GIVE ME THE ENCHILADA WITH THE PICKLE SAUCE SHOVED UP AND DOWN THE DONKEY’S ASS UNTIL HE CAN’T COME ANYMORE!” At that moment she collapsed, just as I shot her a load of jism that filled up her box so much that it shot out of her mouth like a geyser. After it was all over and we had lain there for several minutes in mute exhaustion, Gloria found the energy to ask me: “OK, I understand how you got it to be so huge and stiff, but how did you get it to shine like that?” “Turtle Wax”. |
To this in minutes
Me got
mucho
cuevo!
mucho
cuevo!
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