Rants & Ruminations
By The Editors
One of these days, I’ll accidentally come across someone’s photo I recognize on the Internet. Because of my habits, odds are they’ll be involved in a gang-bang and/or bestiality video. (Don’t you dare judge me.)
Confusion will hit me instantly, as my past collides with my present. The possible rift in the space-time continuum will put an end to my boner. Who is this girl? Why does she look so familiar? Where do I know her from?
(I’m assuming it’s going to be a woman for two reasons: (a) there are more females than males in porn, since it’s easier to buy fake breasts than master the art of penile control; (b) I rarely look at gay porn.)
To make the positive identification, I’ll scour the net for any information about the actress. This will end in one of two ways:
(1) I’ll find out where I met her and get on with my life;
(2) My landlord, coming to collect months of unpaid rent, will find me facedown on my keyboard, dead from a combination of exhaustion and obsession.
And that’s how surfing Internet porn is like Russian Roulette.
-Rick
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Sometimes I enjoy the smell of my own farts. I recall in a previous South Park episode entitled “Smug Alert!” smugness has overcome the little town of South Park to the point that everyone now enjoyed the smell of their own farts. Perhaps that is the reason, but I am not thoroughly convinced.
I don’t think there is one person who doesn’t feel some sort of pride over the methane-like gas that their body has created. It is akin to marveling over the girth of a really big shit you just took.
Once, on a road trip to Upstate New York, my friend showed me a picture a really big poop she took. In between accusations of her sister wearing her bra – highly unlikely as her sister was twice the size of her with actual breasts – we ooh’d and ahh’d over her spiraling concoction.
Many times when my body creates a master piece rivaling Michelangelo’s David, I come out of the bathroom insisting that my boyfriend bear witness or at least listen to my description. He is often repulsed or just ignores me since hearing me ramble on about my bowel movements is becoming rather dull and repetitive. Whatever, he’s just jealous.
Yours in poo,
-Tara
One of these days, I’ll accidentally come across someone’s photo I recognize on the Internet. Because of my habits, odds are they’ll be involved in a gang-bang and/or bestiality video. (Don’t you dare judge me.)
Confusion will hit me instantly, as my past collides with my present. The possible rift in the space-time continuum will put an end to my boner. Who is this girl? Why does she look so familiar? Where do I know her from?
(I’m assuming it’s going to be a woman for two reasons: (a) there are more females than males in porn, since it’s easier to buy fake breasts than master the art of penile control; (b) I rarely look at gay porn.)
To make the positive identification, I’ll scour the net for any information about the actress. This will end in one of two ways:
(1) I’ll find out where I met her and get on with my life;
(2) My landlord, coming to collect months of unpaid rent, will find me facedown on my keyboard, dead from a combination of exhaustion and obsession.
And that’s how surfing Internet porn is like Russian Roulette.
-Rick
----------
Sometimes I enjoy the smell of my own farts. I recall in a previous South Park episode entitled “Smug Alert!” smugness has overcome the little town of South Park to the point that everyone now enjoyed the smell of their own farts. Perhaps that is the reason, but I am not thoroughly convinced.
I don’t think there is one person who doesn’t feel some sort of pride over the methane-like gas that their body has created. It is akin to marveling over the girth of a really big shit you just took.
Once, on a road trip to Upstate New York, my friend showed me a picture a really big poop she took. In between accusations of her sister wearing her bra – highly unlikely as her sister was twice the size of her with actual breasts – we ooh’d and ahh’d over her spiraling concoction.
Many times when my body creates a master piece rivaling Michelangelo’s David, I come out of the bathroom insisting that my boyfriend bear witness or at least listen to my description. He is often repulsed or just ignores me since hearing me ramble on about my bowel movements is becoming rather dull and repetitive. Whatever, he’s just jealous.
Yours in poo,
-Tara
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