My new boyfriend is very experienced. I’m not jealous of all the girls he’s been with, but I’ve always been really scared of getting an STD. And when I’m with him, I can’t stop worrying about it, even though we practice safe sex. Will he mind if I ask him detailed questions about his past?
irby: okay, so we're going to start doing this new thing sometimes. post a question that some boring and conventional (read: not smartypants comedy jokepeople who talk shit on the internet rather than help other humans in any sort of tangible way) expert has already tackled and solved, reprint said answer, and compare and contrast our own. it's sort of like "what would jesus do?" if jesus wrote for cosmo and satan was allowed to interject.
the expert's advice, in part, is as follows: "...just because a guy has been with other girls, it doesn’t make him the Chlamydia King. If you start grilling him because you fear he has an STD, he’ll understandably feel defensive and maybe even a little angry. The only way for you to get them is for him to get tested. And the only way to be fair about it is to get tested with him. Don’t bring it up before, during, or right after sex. Instead, do it when you’re fully clothed and somewhere neutral."
1 "i'm not jealous." wrong.
2 if you're truly consumed by this terror of communicable venereal disease, please allow me to kick that dick right out of your mouth. the common cold is gruesome to me. seriously, that shit is downright intolerable. i would rather have an STD than spend twenty hours a day wide awake lurching around my apartment breathing through an open mouth with half a box of kleenex shoved into my leaking, congested nostrils, coughing up blood and lung tissue, wracked by simultaneous fever and chills. okay, maybe i wouldn't really. especially since colds are virtually unavoidable considering that i have to ride the train to work, touch filthy money, untie my gross slushy winter boots that have tracked through all sorts of excrement and dirt; practically everything i ever have to do is totally disgusting and puts me at risk of infecting myself with some new virulent strain of superflu. so all i can do is wash my hands and keep amoxicillin in my medicine cabinet. but there's no mandate that says you gotta keep a pair of ballz in your jawz, GURL. no one is forcing you to suck on that pubic lice blow pop. get celibate.
3 1% of living humans want to discuss the details of their sexual history. because the people who are asking for those details are often judgmental assholes who feign vaginal sanctity and virtue when it comes to public disclosure of their own bedroom (or mid-price chain restaurant bathroom, bowling alley, grocery store parking lot, airport chapel, hospital cafeteria...) activity. so yeah, he's probably going to mind. unless he's the one who divulged this vast amount of sexual conquerage in the first place, in which case i'm going to venture a guess that he inflated the two handjobs and handful of actual penetrations he's scored to impress you or pressure you into consenting to a gangbang or some other gross shit. no grown-ass man is going to brag about how many women he's slept with to a lady he actually cares about, because ladybrain is a real fucking thing and most adult males know better than to pry the lid off that pandora's box of irrational sobbing jealousy and emotion. what a fucking bonerkiller.
4 the motherfucking spanish inquisition. this is the kind of shit i'm referring to when i go so crazy about my aversion to having talks all the goddamned time. because this woman doesn't really want to talk about gonorrhea. that particular conundrum is easily resolved: "hey dude, i need to see some recent free clinic paperwork before i let you slide it in my butt." unless i missed the part where she said this strapping lothario is also a physician, what the hell is there to talk to him about? just admit you want to hear dirty details about all of his ex-girlfriends while comparing yourself to them and deciding that you are vastly superior. "that slut let you COME ON HER FACE?! what a dirty whore. now let's move on to number 927." i'm not into this sort of self-indulgent torture porn. i like to pretend that the penis i just unwrapped is fresh off the assembly line, untouched by other human hands. so what if i can see the scuff marks the girl who returned it left behind? one man's ceiling is another man's floor, i guess. besides, he's going to lie. especially if he can tell you're uncomfortable with his prowess. I WOULD LIE. so skip this part.
5 "fully clothed and somewhere neutral." you know, in case that motherfucker throws a punch. what does that even mean?! are you supposed to accuse your new boyfriend of being a walking syphillis dispenser in the middle of a starbucks or some shit? "i'll have a tall americano, and while we're on the subject, how many of those have you had sex with?" i think what our expert is really trying to say is DON'T GIVE THIS POOR DUDE BLUE BALLS, YOU NEUROTIC PIECE OF SHIT JERKFACE. here's how i do it, in case you enjoy being a huge dick: keep a copy of your recent negative bloodwork and pap results in your day planner. next time you're at dinner, pull that shit out and say, "i don't have herpes. how about you?" and he'll either make an appointment to have his junk swabbed or he'll scrape off those cold sores and forge some realistic-looking results. hmm on second thought, maybe the neutral place you two should have this discussion is in a doctor's office.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
hey mom, you're dumb.
dear irby and ian:
is it impolite to correct friends or relatives when they are wrong?
irby: you only have to meet me one time to know what my answer to this is. while possibly impolite, it is often 100% NECESSARY TO CORRECT SOME WRONG-ASS BITCH. i'm going to climb over the fourth wall for a second and tell you something awful about myself: i am totally insufferable. not all of the time, because i can be pretty goddamned charming and adorable and if you met me in real life you would want to hold me close to you and tickle my sides. but when i am victorious, especially in a battle of wits, i often behave in a way that is unworthy of human kindness.
i'm the baby of my dysfunctional family, and i proudly display every single negative characteristic and trait that accompanies that distinction. i'm too social and outgoing, financially irresponsible, whiny, egotistical, spoiled, and the most manipulative brat you will ever fucking meet. you'll still like me, though, because i'm the undisciplined life of the goddamned party. seriously, dude, i'm a good fucking time. and what rules?! any trouble i get us in can just be undone with the blink of my adowable wittle eyelashes. no one gets mad at the baby! baby can do whatever she wants! which is why i'm sometimes the worst. because when everyone acts like everything you do is cute and hilarious all the time, it's difficult to locate the off switch. i'm like the energizer bunny of "you're doing that wrong."
americans are super rude, and that's one of my most favorite things about this country. you can just be as foul and horrible as you want to be and let all your dirty shit hang out and no one is going to throw you in jail or publicly execute your ass for doing so. you might have to weather some dirty looks from people too polite to call you a shit-eating asshole to your face, but what the fuck do YOU care? you're rude! the world is your oyster! plus, the rest of us get fair warning to stay the fuck away from your grouchy ass. nobody has any goddamned manners anymore, so life is just one smash-and-grab survival of the fittest great big cosmic adventure. get what you can, man. i appreciate rudeness, mostly because i hate being nice more than anything else on earth and rude motherfuckers absolve you of that particular burden. the less i have to smile and pretend to give a shit about the weather outside or how your day is going, the better.
what's hilarious, though, are the silly things we feel the need to be polite about. a woman who would turn her head the other way while a visibly pregnant woman laden with groceries struggles to get her stroller onto the bus is the same shrinking violet too timid to tell her boyfriend that his final jeopardy guess is wrong? bitch, please. most family dynamics are complicated and weird, but if everyone is grown now what's the harm in telling your cousin that "irregardless" isn't a motherfucking word? my sister carol texted me the other day using abbreviations and emoticons she's thirty years too old for and i responded, "send that shit again. IN GODDAMNED ENGLISH."
political quarrels and ethical catch-22s are another story, though. but, in those instances, so is the concept of "rightness." when right depends on perspective rather than what you can scientifically prove, you might want to keep your fucking mouth shut. the other night i met a religious black dude in a bar. he wasn't hitting on me overtly, at least i hope he wasn't, because he started the conversation asking which republican i supported in the field of those vying for the presidential nomination. the whole "black republican" thing is astonishing to me, especially when that black person doesn't have any goddamned money. (his credit card was declined, and i nearly died of embarrassment for him.) anyway, thinking he was joking, i said, "whichever one would hold my hand during an abortion." thus unintentionally sparking a lengthy, exhausting defense of a woman's right to choose that totally destroyed my partyboner. i'm smart enough to know that it's as useless to try to change someone's mind as it is for him to try to change mine, and i didn't. neither should you.
is he ever going to convince me to kneel and worship a magical zombie that's his own father? probably not. am i ever going to convince him that it's okay for me to get gay married to a woman with good health insurance who will let me have side boyfriends? totally unlikely. some things you just have to learn to coexist with. so as long as you limit your revisions to shit you can substantiate with the help of a dictionary or history book, CORRECT THAT WRONG ASS BITCH. just like i would! with fervor!
is it impolite to correct friends or relatives when they are wrong?
irby: you only have to meet me one time to know what my answer to this is. while possibly impolite, it is often 100% NECESSARY TO CORRECT SOME WRONG-ASS BITCH. i'm going to climb over the fourth wall for a second and tell you something awful about myself: i am totally insufferable. not all of the time, because i can be pretty goddamned charming and adorable and if you met me in real life you would want to hold me close to you and tickle my sides. but when i am victorious, especially in a battle of wits, i often behave in a way that is unworthy of human kindness.
i'm the baby of my dysfunctional family, and i proudly display every single negative characteristic and trait that accompanies that distinction. i'm too social and outgoing, financially irresponsible, whiny, egotistical, spoiled, and the most manipulative brat you will ever fucking meet. you'll still like me, though, because i'm the undisciplined life of the goddamned party. seriously, dude, i'm a good fucking time. and what rules?! any trouble i get us in can just be undone with the blink of my adowable wittle eyelashes. no one gets mad at the baby! baby can do whatever she wants! which is why i'm sometimes the worst. because when everyone acts like everything you do is cute and hilarious all the time, it's difficult to locate the off switch. i'm like the energizer bunny of "you're doing that wrong."
americans are super rude, and that's one of my most favorite things about this country. you can just be as foul and horrible as you want to be and let all your dirty shit hang out and no one is going to throw you in jail or publicly execute your ass for doing so. you might have to weather some dirty looks from people too polite to call you a shit-eating asshole to your face, but what the fuck do YOU care? you're rude! the world is your oyster! plus, the rest of us get fair warning to stay the fuck away from your grouchy ass. nobody has any goddamned manners anymore, so life is just one smash-and-grab survival of the fittest great big cosmic adventure. get what you can, man. i appreciate rudeness, mostly because i hate being nice more than anything else on earth and rude motherfuckers absolve you of that particular burden. the less i have to smile and pretend to give a shit about the weather outside or how your day is going, the better.
what's hilarious, though, are the silly things we feel the need to be polite about. a woman who would turn her head the other way while a visibly pregnant woman laden with groceries struggles to get her stroller onto the bus is the same shrinking violet too timid to tell her boyfriend that his final jeopardy guess is wrong? bitch, please. most family dynamics are complicated and weird, but if everyone is grown now what's the harm in telling your cousin that "irregardless" isn't a motherfucking word? my sister carol texted me the other day using abbreviations and emoticons she's thirty years too old for and i responded, "send that shit again. IN GODDAMNED ENGLISH."
political quarrels and ethical catch-22s are another story, though. but, in those instances, so is the concept of "rightness." when right depends on perspective rather than what you can scientifically prove, you might want to keep your fucking mouth shut. the other night i met a religious black dude in a bar. he wasn't hitting on me overtly, at least i hope he wasn't, because he started the conversation asking which republican i supported in the field of those vying for the presidential nomination. the whole "black republican" thing is astonishing to me, especially when that black person doesn't have any goddamned money. (his credit card was declined, and i nearly died of embarrassment for him.) anyway, thinking he was joking, i said, "whichever one would hold my hand during an abortion." thus unintentionally sparking a lengthy, exhausting defense of a woman's right to choose that totally destroyed my partyboner. i'm smart enough to know that it's as useless to try to change someone's mind as it is for him to try to change mine, and i didn't. neither should you.
is he ever going to convince me to kneel and worship a magical zombie that's his own father? probably not. am i ever going to convince him that it's okay for me to get gay married to a woman with good health insurance who will let me have side boyfriends? totally unlikely. some things you just have to learn to coexist with. so as long as you limit your revisions to shit you can substantiate with the help of a dictionary or history book, CORRECT THAT WRONG ASS BITCH. just like i would! with fervor!
Thursday, January 12, 2012
talking is for girls.
dear irby and ian:
what's the best way to approach a guy when you need to talk? if you want to minimize freakout on his side that is. text before? tell him you should talk soon? or just get to it directly?
irby: OH MAN, I HATE TALKS. and i know my vagina might say otherwise, but i'm all man when it comes to wringing oneself out over some emotional chow chow: I'M NOT TRYING TO HEAR THAT SHIT. tell me, please, when was the last time you had some soul-draining emotional talk with a person and came away from it feeling happy and secure and wanting to spend more time with the person who just berated you for forty-five minutes about something you could give a fuck about? wait, scratch that, when was the last time some bitch came at you suggesting a "talk" and it turned out to be anything other than forty-five minutes of being berated about something you could give a fuck about?!
i have never, in my entire life, in any of my interpersonal relationships with either a woman or a man, ever in the history of ever proposed that the two of us sit down somewhere and have a goddamned talk. no one ever wants to sit you down to talk about how he should go down on you more or why she's about to start giving you $100 a week just for being a good friend; motherfuckers want to sit your ass in an uncomfortable chair so they can go through the laundry list of your crimes against them that they've compiled and have rehearsed and are prepared to deliver to you, in monologue, with neither context nor qualification. and all you can do is sit there like a scolded child, nodding sadly in agreement that yes, you are the meanest/nastiest/dumbest coworker/BFF/girlfriend that ever had the audacity to show her face on earth.
man, fuck all that. life is supposed to be fun and full of jokes. like a real-life circus except with electric bills and starbucks runs. who wants to get bummed out talking about everything all the time? can't you just get drunk and eat fried chicken and bang that dude a few times a week? why mess everything up by talking to him?! because whatever behavior you're hoping to change won't happen. sure, you can browbeat that asshole into picking up his socks and unloading the dishwasher for a few days, but as soon as you relax that stranglehold on his leash and start letting him back out into the yard with no supervision? fuck them dirty dish socks, bitch!
you'd have to trick a jerk like me into a talk. if i got a warning text you would NEVER SEE ME AGAIN IN YOUR LIFE. that is not a joke. the minute you say, "hey irby, we need to have a talk later" you can guarantee that my phone number will be changed by the end of the business day. send me a follow-up email to reiterate and i will be in witness protection by the end of the week. can't i just apologize before you get started and save us all a bunch of headache? i swear to god, i'm really sorry for that thing i did and i promise i will never ever do that shit again. okay? is it all better? can we go have sex now?
some of you might be lucky enough to have the kind of dude who's okay with sitting across the table from you staring through your eyes down into your soul while you let him know what an asshole he is for hanging out with his buddies until three in the morning and not returning each and every one of the forty-seven texts you sent him, but i am pretty sure that's just game. some of these highly-evolved gentlemen know that the way to most women's hearts is through her vocal cords, and they've perfected the art of solemn nodding and the believeable "mm hmm, yeah. you're totally right." they probably also give amazingly thorough foot rubs and cook your favorite dinner for you every tuesday. those dudes are obviously not to be trusted. or 100% human.
women just love to listen to themselves blathering on ad nauseum. and that's why we have ladyfriends to talk to. amanda and i have a continuous email thread that began may 2nd and is 3000 emails long. that's right, this asshole and i talk on the phone, text each other, post shit on the other's facebook all goddamned day, and still have enough shit to say to fill up THREE THOUSAND EMAILS. the fact that i would never be interested in that level of communication with a man notwithstanding, no man would ever be interested in reading that long line of bullshit. talking is for girls, ie people whose eyes won't glaze over thirty seconds into your description of how insensitive the saleslady at barney's was this afternoon. so why not dump all your shit on your girlfriends? seriously, THAT IS OUR JOB.
shit you can do to a man that is more effective than talking:
break up with him. isn't that what you want to do anyway? isn't all this talking just a precursor to kicking him out on his ass? aren't you about to lay down a bunch of ultimatums that, if not fulfilled, will leave you no other choice than to hand him a pink slip? why not just cut out the middle man and let whatever you want to tell him be the last thing you ever say? i'm sure that's what he wants. "here's this nagging-ass bitch chapping my dick off yet again about some shit i had no idea i'd even done to piss her off. i never do anything right, anyway, according to her. she even hates the way i breathe. all this blah blah blah is making my penis soft. we should just end this."
or at least that's what i'm thinking every time some ho is crabbing at me. then i start scrambling to figure out what i have to say to shut that noise the fuck up while i nod and search for the nearest exit. i'm not going to change, girl, i'm just going to pretend i will for the duration of this torturous conversation. and i'll put up a valiant effort for a couple days, and as soon as you relax i'm going to go right back to doing the same old dumb fucking shit. so here's my advice because i love women and want us to be as minimally stressed as possible: if it isn't going to kill you, and you don't want to find someone else who might be worse, do yourself a favor, dollface. save your fucking breath.
what's the best way to approach a guy when you need to talk? if you want to minimize freakout on his side that is. text before? tell him you should talk soon? or just get to it directly?
irby: OH MAN, I HATE TALKS. and i know my vagina might say otherwise, but i'm all man when it comes to wringing oneself out over some emotional chow chow: I'M NOT TRYING TO HEAR THAT SHIT. tell me, please, when was the last time you had some soul-draining emotional talk with a person and came away from it feeling happy and secure and wanting to spend more time with the person who just berated you for forty-five minutes about something you could give a fuck about? wait, scratch that, when was the last time some bitch came at you suggesting a "talk" and it turned out to be anything other than forty-five minutes of being berated about something you could give a fuck about?!
i have never, in my entire life, in any of my interpersonal relationships with either a woman or a man, ever in the history of ever proposed that the two of us sit down somewhere and have a goddamned talk. no one ever wants to sit you down to talk about how he should go down on you more or why she's about to start giving you $100 a week just for being a good friend; motherfuckers want to sit your ass in an uncomfortable chair so they can go through the laundry list of your crimes against them that they've compiled and have rehearsed and are prepared to deliver to you, in monologue, with neither context nor qualification. and all you can do is sit there like a scolded child, nodding sadly in agreement that yes, you are the meanest/nastiest/dumbest coworker/BFF/girlfriend that ever had the audacity to show her face on earth.
man, fuck all that. life is supposed to be fun and full of jokes. like a real-life circus except with electric bills and starbucks runs. who wants to get bummed out talking about everything all the time? can't you just get drunk and eat fried chicken and bang that dude a few times a week? why mess everything up by talking to him?! because whatever behavior you're hoping to change won't happen. sure, you can browbeat that asshole into picking up his socks and unloading the dishwasher for a few days, but as soon as you relax that stranglehold on his leash and start letting him back out into the yard with no supervision? fuck them dirty dish socks, bitch!
you'd have to trick a jerk like me into a talk. if i got a warning text you would NEVER SEE ME AGAIN IN YOUR LIFE. that is not a joke. the minute you say, "hey irby, we need to have a talk later" you can guarantee that my phone number will be changed by the end of the business day. send me a follow-up email to reiterate and i will be in witness protection by the end of the week. can't i just apologize before you get started and save us all a bunch of headache? i swear to god, i'm really sorry for that thing i did and i promise i will never ever do that shit again. okay? is it all better? can we go have sex now?
some of you might be lucky enough to have the kind of dude who's okay with sitting across the table from you staring through your eyes down into your soul while you let him know what an asshole he is for hanging out with his buddies until three in the morning and not returning each and every one of the forty-seven texts you sent him, but i am pretty sure that's just game. some of these highly-evolved gentlemen know that the way to most women's hearts is through her vocal cords, and they've perfected the art of solemn nodding and the believeable "mm hmm, yeah. you're totally right." they probably also give amazingly thorough foot rubs and cook your favorite dinner for you every tuesday. those dudes are obviously not to be trusted. or 100% human.
women just love to listen to themselves blathering on ad nauseum. and that's why we have ladyfriends to talk to. amanda and i have a continuous email thread that began may 2nd and is 3000 emails long. that's right, this asshole and i talk on the phone, text each other, post shit on the other's facebook all goddamned day, and still have enough shit to say to fill up THREE THOUSAND EMAILS. the fact that i would never be interested in that level of communication with a man notwithstanding, no man would ever be interested in reading that long line of bullshit. talking is for girls, ie people whose eyes won't glaze over thirty seconds into your description of how insensitive the saleslady at barney's was this afternoon. so why not dump all your shit on your girlfriends? seriously, THAT IS OUR JOB.
shit you can do to a man that is more effective than talking:
break up with him. isn't that what you want to do anyway? isn't all this talking just a precursor to kicking him out on his ass? aren't you about to lay down a bunch of ultimatums that, if not fulfilled, will leave you no other choice than to hand him a pink slip? why not just cut out the middle man and let whatever you want to tell him be the last thing you ever say? i'm sure that's what he wants. "here's this nagging-ass bitch chapping my dick off yet again about some shit i had no idea i'd even done to piss her off. i never do anything right, anyway, according to her. she even hates the way i breathe. all this blah blah blah is making my penis soft. we should just end this."
or at least that's what i'm thinking every time some ho is crabbing at me. then i start scrambling to figure out what i have to say to shut that noise the fuck up while i nod and search for the nearest exit. i'm not going to change, girl, i'm just going to pretend i will for the duration of this torturous conversation. and i'll put up a valiant effort for a couple days, and as soon as you relax i'm going to go right back to doing the same old dumb fucking shit. so here's my advice because i love women and want us to be as minimally stressed as possible: if it isn't going to kill you, and you don't want to find someone else who might be worse, do yourself a favor, dollface. save your fucking breath.
Monday, January 9, 2012
it'd be a wonderful life. if it didn't have fucking YOU in it.
Dear i+i:
I get feeling really blue around the holidays. Seems to get worse every year. Can you recommend anything that might help? - Sad Elf
ian: Sure thing, SE. First off: if you need reading specs, go fetch 'em now, cause I'd sure hate for you miss this:
KILL YOURSELF.
Kill yourself right now.
Let me be clear: this is not a wake up call. This is not a slap in the face to give you perspective. I'm not Clarence the fucking angel, and I'm not Jacob fucking Marley. The only reason Clarence would jump in after you is to hold your fucking head underwater, and Jacob Marley would visit you for the sole purpose of choking the fucking life out of you with his ghost chains. My earnest recommendation is that you take your own life - like this second. Tonight. I am not even kidding - this should not be your resolution for the year, it should be your resolution for the next 90 minutes or so.
Which reminds me: check your calendar there, son. If you're feeling "really blue" - it's 1946 where you are and you're already not alive anymore. So put away your ghost typewriter and quit bothering the living.
I want you to go to your medicine cabinet, snag that bottle of Percocet® from when you fucked up your back last fall and the rest of the Tylenol PM® you got, take every tablet in there. No water. Chew 'em. Then down a pint of Popov Vodka® - room temperature. Now go to your closet and carefully remove the dry cleaning bag from the single Men's Wearhouse® suit you own. Put the bag over your greasy face. Take off your belt and put it around your neck. Pull it tight as a tourniquet. Now die. Quick like a bunny. Scoot, you hear?
Because here's the news, Chief: everybody on the face of the fucking earth gets depressed around the holidays. What we do not fucking need is another jagoff like you bellyaching about it. The holidays are the most efficient depression-delivery system known to man. The holidays are the emotional equivalent of loading a turkey baster with anthrax and squirting that shit in your eye. There's actually no such THING as "Seasonal Affective Disorder" - it's the fucking holidays. Dreading their approach, suffering through them, the grisly emotional hangover. If they do not cause you to stare into the face of your the bleak and comical little shit show you've made of your life and the pointless end that awaits you, then you are:
We would each of us rather our next meal consist only of the fragmentary peanuts and corn clinging to Kim Kardashian's dick after it's been ass-punishing that ex-husband of hers than to put up with another second of your self-indulgent (Spoiler alert - Kim Kardashian has a dick, and we're not talking about a vestigial little Jamie Lee Curtis pig-tail nipple dick, here, but a properly thick and veiny porn cock. "Kim" Kardashian is hung like a fucking Pringles® can, fellas. That slurpy sound you hear is tens of thousands of spent spank loads trying to claw their way back into the wieners they came from. Guys: where grainy sex tapes are concerned, ALWAYS run a dick-check - it's pretty basic. Then maybe we'd have been spared this Kardashian reign of fucking terror. Or, all you freaks are into shemales. Either way: sad times.)
Point is this: it's 2012. The year that, according to predictions of the Mayan calendar, you should just go fuck yourself. You're right to hate yourself. It just means you're joining the rest of us. If you think for a second that your transitory feelings of discomfort qualify as anything like actual pain, you can Sharpie® the words "entitled twinkle-tits little twat burger" on a grenade, pull the pin, and stuff it up your ass. Your new nickname is Wet Firecracker. Pity you'll only have it for like 8 seconds. Happy New Year, Idiot Asshole.
I get feeling really blue around the holidays. Seems to get worse every year. Can you recommend anything that might help? - Sad Elf
ian: Sure thing, SE. First off: if you need reading specs, go fetch 'em now, cause I'd sure hate for you miss this:
KILL YOURSELF.
Kill yourself right now.
Let me be clear: this is not a wake up call. This is not a slap in the face to give you perspective. I'm not Clarence the fucking angel, and I'm not Jacob fucking Marley. The only reason Clarence would jump in after you is to hold your fucking head underwater, and Jacob Marley would visit you for the sole purpose of choking the fucking life out of you with his ghost chains. My earnest recommendation is that you take your own life - like this second. Tonight. I am not even kidding - this should not be your resolution for the year, it should be your resolution for the next 90 minutes or so.
Which reminds me: check your calendar there, son. If you're feeling "really blue" - it's 1946 where you are and you're already not alive anymore. So put away your ghost typewriter and quit bothering the living.
I want you to go to your medicine cabinet, snag that bottle of Percocet® from when you fucked up your back last fall and the rest of the Tylenol PM® you got, take every tablet in there. No water. Chew 'em. Then down a pint of Popov Vodka® - room temperature. Now go to your closet and carefully remove the dry cleaning bag from the single Men's Wearhouse® suit you own. Put the bag over your greasy face. Take off your belt and put it around your neck. Pull it tight as a tourniquet. Now die. Quick like a bunny. Scoot, you hear?
Because here's the news, Chief: everybody on the face of the fucking earth gets depressed around the holidays. What we do not fucking need is another jagoff like you bellyaching about it. The holidays are the most efficient depression-delivery system known to man. The holidays are the emotional equivalent of loading a turkey baster with anthrax and squirting that shit in your eye. There's actually no such THING as "Seasonal Affective Disorder" - it's the fucking holidays. Dreading their approach, suffering through them, the grisly emotional hangover. If they do not cause you to stare into the face of your the bleak and comical little shit show you've made of your life and the pointless end that awaits you, then you are:
- Developmentally disabled.
- Dead already.
- All of the above.
We would each of us rather our next meal consist only of the fragmentary peanuts and corn clinging to Kim Kardashian's dick after it's been ass-punishing that ex-husband of hers than to put up with another second of your self-indulgent (Spoiler alert - Kim Kardashian has a dick, and we're not talking about a vestigial little Jamie Lee Curtis pig-tail nipple dick, here, but a properly thick and veiny porn cock. "Kim" Kardashian is hung like a fucking Pringles® can, fellas. That slurpy sound you hear is tens of thousands of spent spank loads trying to claw their way back into the wieners they came from. Guys: where grainy sex tapes are concerned, ALWAYS run a dick-check - it's pretty basic. Then maybe we'd have been spared this Kardashian reign of fucking terror. Or, all you freaks are into shemales. Either way: sad times.)
Point is this: it's 2012. The year that, according to predictions of the Mayan calendar, you should just go fuck yourself. You're right to hate yourself. It just means you're joining the rest of us. If you think for a second that your transitory feelings of discomfort qualify as anything like actual pain, you can Sharpie® the words "entitled twinkle-tits little twat burger" on a grenade, pull the pin, and stuff it up your ass. Your new nickname is Wet Firecracker. Pity you'll only have it for like 8 seconds. Happy New Year, Idiot Asshole.
Friday, January 6, 2012
all hands on deck.
Dear Irby and Ian, I was making out with my boyfriend-ish person today and I had no idea what to do with my hands. I'm only a freshman and I haven't made out with a lot of boys yet. I'm too embarrassed to ask my friends because they are more advanced than I am and they will make fun of me for just kissing. What are some cute or fun things you can do with them? Thank you so much!
irby: OH THANK GOD. now this really restores my faith in the american teenager. every time i flip past mtv i cringe, right before my heart breaks in half and falls right out of my butthole. teen trailer park moms and orange jersey titties and songs about sucking dicks at three in the afternoon? that's what your teenage daughter is watching, homie. and that shit is utterly terrifying.
i'm not going to pretend that i was some kind of angel as a child, especially when there are so many people who could testify to the number of hours i spent dead asleep in the library, but these kids today (saying that makes me sound SO OLD, omg) are on some next level crazy. you assholes are doing gangbangs in the family room while your mom is out at book club and shit. in the eighth grade there was a scandal at our middle school because some girls got caught giving blowjobs at someone's basement house party, but these days bitches are getting fucked in the ass in the middle of homeroom and shit. sucking dick is so 1993. young women today fuck like porn stars, and you can count that as chief among the reasons i don't plan on procreation anytime soon.
so imagine how my little heart soared at the sight of this question! not, "how do i get an abortion without my mom's consent?" or "does having anal really count as losing my virginity?" this wholesome slice of apple pie wants to know about HOLDING HANDS AND SMOOCHING. a rainbow just exploded out of my heart.
now real-life, old-ass cynical irby would advise you to use those paws to tear off his belt and get you a big piece of that delicious meat, but you, little girl, probably don't even know what that means. do any adults just kiss? i mean, unless you're standing on a porch or in a doorway? i can't remember the last time i was like, "let's just make out" and that's all that happened. everyone i know is all, kiss kiss ki-- TAKE YOUR FUCKING CLOTHES OFF RIGHT THIS GODDAMNED MINUTE. as a matter of fact my usual opening line is, "want to go down on me for an hour and a half?" i don't have time to waste trying to figure out with my tongue what you ate for lunch today. get my pants off and kiss THAT, motherfucker.
here are my ideas for cute and fun things to do with your adolescent hands while trying not to cut your lips on your boyfriend's braces:
math homework. fun? meh. practical? absolutely. guaranteed i would've gotten better than a goddamned B+ in geometry if i'd had a math tutor. and by that i mean "mouth tutor."
knit. make him a cardigan or something. isn't that what all the male children are wearing these days? what better than one knit from unrequited love and teenage angst?
SAT prep. kids are dumb and usually have limited vocabularies, and you know you need to get into the better of your state school options. so do some flashcards or something. try not to end up in community college, like me. what do you want to do, waste the rest of your life writing fake advice comedy blogs?! ahahahahahahahahate my life please kill me.
chores. ironing, mopping, scrubbing: all things that can be done with your hands while your mouth is otherwise occupied. just think how happy your mom will be when she comes home to a teenage daughter who not only isn't pregnant but also cleaned the grout in the shower! allowance raise, for sure.
oh who the fuck am i kidding, dollface? HANDS GO IN PANTS.
ps, "boyfriend-ish person" is exactly what i want in my love life. seriously, i've never before heard it so brilliantly encapsulated. bravo, little one. now go give your spanish teacher my phone number. SABROSO.
irby: OH THANK GOD. now this really restores my faith in the american teenager. every time i flip past mtv i cringe, right before my heart breaks in half and falls right out of my butthole. teen trailer park moms and orange jersey titties and songs about sucking dicks at three in the afternoon? that's what your teenage daughter is watching, homie. and that shit is utterly terrifying.
i'm not going to pretend that i was some kind of angel as a child, especially when there are so many people who could testify to the number of hours i spent dead asleep in the library, but these kids today (saying that makes me sound SO OLD, omg) are on some next level crazy. you assholes are doing gangbangs in the family room while your mom is out at book club and shit. in the eighth grade there was a scandal at our middle school because some girls got caught giving blowjobs at someone's basement house party, but these days bitches are getting fucked in the ass in the middle of homeroom and shit. sucking dick is so 1993. young women today fuck like porn stars, and you can count that as chief among the reasons i don't plan on procreation anytime soon.
so imagine how my little heart soared at the sight of this question! not, "how do i get an abortion without my mom's consent?" or "does having anal really count as losing my virginity?" this wholesome slice of apple pie wants to know about HOLDING HANDS AND SMOOCHING. a rainbow just exploded out of my heart.
now real-life, old-ass cynical irby would advise you to use those paws to tear off his belt and get you a big piece of that delicious meat, but you, little girl, probably don't even know what that means. do any adults just kiss? i mean, unless you're standing on a porch or in a doorway? i can't remember the last time i was like, "let's just make out" and that's all that happened. everyone i know is all, kiss kiss ki-- TAKE YOUR FUCKING CLOTHES OFF RIGHT THIS GODDAMNED MINUTE. as a matter of fact my usual opening line is, "want to go down on me for an hour and a half?" i don't have time to waste trying to figure out with my tongue what you ate for lunch today. get my pants off and kiss THAT, motherfucker.
here are my ideas for cute and fun things to do with your adolescent hands while trying not to cut your lips on your boyfriend's braces:
math homework. fun? meh. practical? absolutely. guaranteed i would've gotten better than a goddamned B+ in geometry if i'd had a math tutor. and by that i mean "mouth tutor."
knit. make him a cardigan or something. isn't that what all the male children are wearing these days? what better than one knit from unrequited love and teenage angst?
SAT prep. kids are dumb and usually have limited vocabularies, and you know you need to get into the better of your state school options. so do some flashcards or something. try not to end up in community college, like me. what do you want to do, waste the rest of your life writing fake advice comedy blogs?! ahahahahahahahahate my life please kill me.
chores. ironing, mopping, scrubbing: all things that can be done with your hands while your mouth is otherwise occupied. just think how happy your mom will be when she comes home to a teenage daughter who not only isn't pregnant but also cleaned the grout in the shower! allowance raise, for sure.
oh who the fuck am i kidding, dollface? HANDS GO IN PANTS.
ps, "boyfriend-ish person" is exactly what i want in my love life. seriously, i've never before heard it so brilliantly encapsulated. bravo, little one. now go give your spanish teacher my phone number. SABROSO.
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