Tag Archives: sex

Hump Day

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It’s Hump Day. It’s Bumpity-Bump Day. It’s Watch the Sun Glisten Off Your Cream Covered Lumps Day. Today is the day of all days to get your dick wet by any means necessary. Preferably by getting 2.5 inches deep in a butthole or a vagenis but if it comes down to it, you might just have to dip it in a glass of ice cold lemonade. Wet. By any means necessary. Spit doesn’t count though. Cuz like, c’mon bro. What is this 7th grade? What is this Church Camp? What is this stealing Sarah G.’s panties from the girl’s cabin and taking them back to your bunk in Cabin 3 to sniff and get your stroke spit stroke on? No. It’s not. Wake up. It’s motherfucking Hump Day.

Today’s the day you take pride in you’re chub chub-a-lub. Don’t be embarrassed if you get rock solid in class or at work or in the boy’s locker room. Stand tall, clench your buttcheeks, projecting your blood filled penis like a beacon of hope to the world. Let your dick scream from the mountain tops “Today is the day! Now who wants to take a ride on the Humpty Train until our genitalia falls off or dies trying?!?”  If anyone takes you up on the offer, remember to IMMEDIATELY put your dismembered genitalia in a Ziploc bag filled with ice or a glass of milk (wet by any means necessary) and seek medical attention promptly. Doctors can do some amazing stuff these days. I once saw a man who had metal legs. METAL LEGS! Like where his legs used to be, they cut them off and then rebuilt them into metal. Like the Terminator and shit. Shit was doooope. Worst case scenario, you’ll end up with a Frankenstein dick. Best case scenario, while they are reattaching they can add an extra couple of inches in length and maybe a few centimeters in girth, if you’re lucky. Girth is such an understated attribute. You know, there was this whole anti-chode backlash in the 1990′s, where having a chode became this negative thing. But honestly I would rather have a good stout girthy chode than some long floppy noodle. Honestly. I’m not just saying that. Really, it’s all about control. Chodes have low centers of gravity, a really solid base, so you can get in there for those power thrusts like PEEEEOOOOOW! It’s hard to get that kind of leverage when you are working with some garden hose. It’s just unweildy. Plus with a long schlong garden hose, when you shoot a wad it has to travel all the way through and loses it’s momentum. It comes trickling out like sand. However a chode is like a little high-power cannon. Like a golden PP-7. It’s got enough pressure to strip the paint off a brick. We’re talking real propulsion here. I mean for realz, this is just me being totally straight with you. I would totally rather have a chode than a schlong any day of the week- but especially today, especially on Hump Day.

And it’s not all about dicks, ladies can celebrate hump day too. Let’s not forget those ladies, y’all. However instead of getting your dick wet by any means necessary, try getting your pussy wet by any means necessary instead. See how that works? It’s easier than you think. Have some awesome lesbian scissor action with your sorority sisters (Phi Mu!). Do the strap-on thing with the waitress at TGIFriday’s while your potato wedges cool down. Bounce on some guys stout stumpy chode until it strips the paint off them sugar walls. Heck- grind that bean on your sybian machine while watching a rerun of Gulluh Gulluh Island on Nick Jr., if you have to. If that big ol’ pollywog, Benya Benya, gets your juicebox squirting, more power to ya. It’s Hump Day. The world is your oyster. Now get out there and get wet, ladies and gents. Tell em Harold sent ya.

What I Look for in a Woman

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My analyst, Dr. Werner Lipschwitz, says that I find faults in all my relationships with women because I am afraid to really open up and let them see my innards. My gutty works.  My heart.  My soul.  He says that maybe if I stopped jerking off to anime porn for two seconds and made a list of the things that I am looking for in a woman, that I might be able to find a healthy relationship where I’m boning on the daily. Carson Daily. He (Lipschwitz, not Carson) is a doctor after all, so he knows what the fuck he is talking about. They don’t just throw out titles like Doctor or Miss America to stupid cunts who wouldn’t know a sinus infection from a cum-filled French bagguete. So, without further adieu (french)…

Vajenga- Might as well get this one out of the way right off the bat. I definitely want my lady to have some chunky New England C-Chowder brewing down in her pantaloons. And it’s not just because I’m all about the humpty hump. There’s so much more to vajengas than just humping. I mean yeah, gettin’ two-inches deep into a steamy bowl of New England’s finest is great and all- it’s the greatest- but there’s more to it than that. For instance, one day I would like to have 2.5 children: Cornelius, Champagne, and half of little Jackie Chan Jr. I don’t care which half. He’s got feet of fury AND a cute little punnam that’s absolutely perfect for Chris Tucker to scream at. I love it when he’s like “Do you understand the words I’m making with my mouf!”  See, I’m a family man, that’s the honest-to-goodness. And the fact of the matter is, you really should probably have a puzzy-wuzzy stink pot if you are planning on pooping out some babes any time soon. You know what, on second thought, maybe I’m being a little too nit-picky here.  Nobody’s perfect. At the very least my dream girl needs to have a good, solid butthole. A big ole downtown brown round ain’t hurtin’ nobody. I’ll settle for a couple butt babies if I have to.

Braces- Teeth braces, leg braces, back braces, what the fuck ever. Nothing gets the blood pumping in my private part like a vulnerable, delicate lady with metal strapped to her body to correct her scoliosis or overbite or bowlegs. You ever gotten a toothy beej from a woman (or man I guess, but really? gross) who had braces? Fuckin’ fuggetabowdit. And don’t even mention fucking Invisalign. Invisalign is bullshit.

Fear yet respect for Magneto- I’m talking X-men here, people. My lady needs to understand that Magneto is a dangerous, powerful man who is willing to destroy lives to get what he wants. At the same time, she needs to be sympathetic to why he has such a violent agenda. It’s because he has faced oppression at every turn in his life. His parents were killed in the Holocaust, for Christ’s sake! Haven’t you seen X-Men: 1st Class? Summer Box Office hit of the Summer?! Life as a mutant is hard and a man can only take so much before he fights back. It’s like, Magneto is the Malcom X of X-Man Land and Dr. Xavier is the MLK Jr. Malcolm vs. MLK. Black Power vs. Being a Pussy Ass Bitch. It’s just like that.

Birdie Style- Some people like it doggie style. Some people like it cowgirl style.  Some people like it Julia Style. I prefer it birdie style. In case you’ve been living in a nunnery the last 3 months, doing The Bird is when you get butt-ass nukkuh and Elmer’s glue feathers (from Hobby Lobby AKA Hob-Lob AKA The Lob AKA Lisa Loeb) all over your body. Then the other person, the ”momma bird” in this instance, eats some French fries and regurgitates them down my throat hole- just like real birds do! If you can be my early bird, you’ll get this man’s worm everytime. BaCAW!

That’s about it.

Just Some Cactus People

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Cactus Person #1 – Stewart Konigsberg: The Well-Intentioned, Bumbling Yet Seemingly Respectable Businessman-Husband

He finds being a cactus-person a curse. Every morning Stew curls up into the fetal position in the shower, inserts his bottle of BIG SEXY HAIR hairspray into his rectum, crying “Why?! Why couldn’t I just be a normal person?!?” He has trouble being intimate with his sexy, slut-ass. 2% milky fat skinned wife, Michelle, and has lurking suspicion that she’s been getting that Pennsylvania-in-Virginia action from Big Dale, who sells razor-sharp steak knives and lives in a trailer next door, while he’s gone to the office. And he’s right. She is. They be pokin dis way and dat way and dis way and dat way. All. The. Live. Long. Day. He got that ass in the wheelburruh, the crabtrap, the piggy-n-a-blanket. You name it. Big Dale delivers those earthquake ‘gasms by the baker’s dozen while she screams “Come Mr. Tally-man, tally me orgasms!”Mr. Man has to wear his chest-high fly fishing waders when he comes over cuz that pussy be gushing like the mighty Cumberland. Cast a line in, he can eat for weeks. You know how the story goes: teach a man to fish. Except he’ll never get the taste of salmon out of his beard. Ole boy’s got FEMA on speed dial from the threat of potential pussy flooding, I tell you what. Got himself an inflatable tube, two paddles, and a life-vest he keeps in the basement, just in case he has to paddle his way out.

But it’s hard to blame Michelle for her infidelity- and it has nothing to do with Stew’s flaccid, prickly little bread and butter pickle. Sure, those razor sharp spines covering his body have taken their toll on their physical relationship, but he’s also not emotionally available for her, you know? Of course he tries. He loves her, or at least he thinks he does, that is to say, if he knew what real love was. He thinks he knows, but he has no idea. It’s like that show Diary on MTV. He thinks he knows, but he has no idea. This is the diary of Stew’s Views on Love and The Human Condition.

Because of his inability to make significant connections with loved ones, Stewart suffers from intense bouts of depression. Don’t tell Michelle, but 3 months ago he was fired from his job at the firm for pounding a fifth of Wild Turkey 101, Donnie Draper style, taking his shirt off, and puking on his secretary’s desk, then strangling his secretary, starting a trashcan fire in his office, catching a pigeon with a cast net, roasting it over the trashcan fire, hurling the charred dead bird at his secretary, screaming “I said hold my calls!,” stuffing a handful of Perocets and Pepperoni-Pizza Combos into his mouth hole, washing it down with Elmer’s Glue, and carving “Michel” into his forearm with a letter opener, then losing consciousness, waking up in the hospital, yanking the IV out of his arm, and running bare-assed in a hospital gown down Martin Luther King Boulevard, screaming “Why?! Why couldn’t I just be a normal person?!?”

Everyday since then he has spent 9-5 in his 92 Honda Accord DX, behind the Lowe’s, inhaling barbiturates and whiskey, trying to muster the courage to either kill himself or Big Dale one. Everyday he pussies out.  Every night he “gets off work” and comes home.  Dale just happens to be over watching TV, gingerly drinking ginger ale. According to Michelle, Dale just happened to drop in to “show off his new selection of quality handmade steak knives.” He just “happened to get back from his fly fishing trip.” Michelle just “happens to have a fat wad of goo in her hair.” Something smells awful fishy (and it’s not just Big Dale’s beard).

Kill/Boff/Marry: Pt. 2

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Boff

Leonardo “the Vinci” DiCaprio 

Face it guys, it takes more than hitting the gym and torching those Delts three times a week until they are more swoll than my labia at a John Mayer concert, to make a few stains on my futon. A pair of cowboy boots, some Brett Favre Wranglers, and an ass tighter than a baby blue whale’s blowhole won’t get you too far with me. Been there done that. That don’t impress-a me much. I mean, don’t get me wrong I think your alright but that won’t keep me warm in the middle of the night. Ultimate sex appeal takes brains too. Smart is sexy. Everybody knows that. Just axe Charlie Darwin. He was getting maaad poonan from all over.  That’s how he came up with Evolution. He was getting so much slit that his dick evolved, and began vibrating on its own accord. I tell people all the time, “If you ain’t packin’ upstairs, then I ain’t worried bout cha luggage downstairs,” and I truly do mean it, y’all.  That’s why I want to boff the beard off of Leonardo, who Zagats rated 3rd smartest man ever. And those muscles don’t hurt either! Take a gander at the photo to the right of Leonardo early in his modeling career. This was right before his stint on Growing Pains with Dr. Alan Thicke.  Such defined pectorals. And look at the Shmeckel! Oi vey!

Plus, he is such a Renaissance man. He paints. He sculpts. He invents. He engineers. He maths. He sciences. He musics. He is an awarding winning author. His work Da Vinci Code talks all about how Jesus is fake and how Tom Hanks should really have four Oscars instead of two and won Oprah’s 2004 book of the year award. Not to mention his acting. Ever heard of a little film I like to call “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?” I’ll tell you what was eating him: his mom was super chunky and his brother was retarded. Or was he? What poise! What commitment! You almost had us fooled Leonardo! Probably the best rendition of a normal guy playing a retarded guy since all those movies with Owen Wilson. Hey Owen Wilson, your nose is crooked. Your voice is annoying. You play the same role in all your movies. Go kill yourself. Ok, that was maybe a little harsh. Marley and Me was pretty cute, I guess. But like, when the dog dies, it is so sad. I mean death is so depressing, you know? Cuz like when someone dies they are gone 4ever :’-( <-That’s how I felt you guys. It’s a crying face.  

Plus, he’s got an Italiano accenté (which gets me moister than an oyster). And that long beard and those flowing locks will give me something to hold on to when I’m riding rodeo style. Buckin’ bronco. Giddy up, Leo! And I bet he’s hung like a summer squash. Overall, I gar-an-tee he would be a great pokin’.

How I Found God

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Do you feel a deep yearning deep down in your deep bones to connect with the big guy in the sky? Do you feel empty and incomplete inside and out? Don’t know how to get full again? We’ll I’m here to tell you- there is hope out there.

You know, I used to be just like you, with that big, Jesus-sized hole in my heart. Well guess what, big shot, you can’t fill that hole with booze or dope or huge mountains of cocaine or hookers or $100,000 bracelets or any of that stuff. Only Jesus. Let the Holy Ghost fill you up to the tippity top. And trust me, I know from experience, guy. I’m not one of those uptight holier-than-thou squares. Heck no. I’m cool, bro. I’ve been around.

Brah-man, I’m tellin ya, I used to toke fat doobies of heady shwag out of a bong I made out of a Dr. Thunder can at Dave Matthews concerts like once a year. I wore Kavu Visors. I went to Bonnaarroo one year and did like 3 hits of acid, 2 tabs of lsd, AND a dose, plus I drank like 3 Mich Ultras. Then I plugged a couple beans of ecstasy in my b-hole and went to the Bassnectar show. After the show I had sex with a plastic bag. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. So, I’ve been there, bro. I got to the point where I was shooting up so much pot that I LITERALLY forgot to feed my dog. For like 8 weeks. He’d been dead for a year in the garage before I sobered up, but I couldn’t smell anything due to the all the “Coco B. Ware” I was doing. Snortin’ it. Sniffin’ it. Bumpin’ it. Humpin’ it. Straight to the dome, my man. The Astro-Dome. I got so MESSED that I named my head that. Like, as a nickname. The Astro-Dome.

And that’s not all. I used to have homosexual, premarital, underage sex with all sorts of people. Grannies, trannies, fatties, my dad, hispanics, hobos, veterinarians, proletarians, boyscouts…We could be here all day. The point is, I let temptation and lust control my life. I got my dick pierced.  I had a monthly subscription to EdwardDildoHands.com. Heck, one afternoon I made a Kathy Bates collage out of tabloid pics, stuck my rod through it, then shut it in the bedroom door. I was messed up. But I found my way out. Or should I say, He found me and lead me out. Of the darkness. Like that book.

See, I was using this junk to fill me up. Then I realized, I’m an 86 year old man just full of junk with a dead dog and a sore wee wee. One day I was driving to Smoothie King and I saw it. The sign. I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes. It was a big black sign with all white lettering that read and I quote: “Darryl, you fucking douche, this is Jesus Christ. Ya know, of Nazareth? And I’m not sayin’, but I’m just sayin’, get your shit together. You are acting like an asshole, and noone wants to invite you to Craig’s XXX-Mas shindig. Drugs are for hippies and little faggy choirboys.” I realized then and there that I had to let Jesus into my life. I had to let him take the wheel and drive me to a little town I like to call Happiness. Drugs can’t do it. Sex can’t do it. Money can’t do it. Kathy Bates can’t do it. I realize that now. I love God so much. He is my Prince Charming. He is the one. He is the only thing I want to smoke. His is the only collage I want to put my penis through. He is my man. And if that makes me gay then fine. I’m gay for God, but I’m full now. Full of God’s big ol’ thaaaang. And let me tell you this, brother, it feels good. It feels damn good.

Tips for Keeping the Passion in Your Relationship: Camping!

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Has your love life lost that special something? That spice? That spark? That ole familiar feeling? We’ve all been there, sister. Tuh-ruuust me. I’m still there. All relationships go through those phases but there are ways to keep the passion in your relationship alive and kickin’ (and hopefully humpin’…look atcha, sittin’ over there witcho sexy azz).

Here’s a tip: Go Camping! Camping can be a great way to get some special alone time between you and your lover. Just you, her, and Mother Nature. And unlike your real mother, Mother Nature doesn’t smoke cigarettes all day with her boyfriend, Jerry, whose only words to you in the last 5 years were “when are you moving out of my new house?” There’s nothing like a rendezvous with the great outdoors to reignite the fires and roast the mallows of your pathetic, flaccid, discolored love life – if you know how. There is so much to do camping, you guys. Seriously. So much. Like a jillion things. AT LEAST. So here’s some suggestions from yours truly on how to make the most of you and the one who is trulys yours’ camping trip.

First of all, women love a hardy woodsman. That Paul Bunyan still melts panties to the floor to this day. You need to prove to your lover that you can provide for her, so it is very important that you do not bring any supplies on your trip.  Any man with a pair of dickbullets can go to a Sam’s Club (well, I mean, only if you have a Sam’s Club Card, but what fucktard doesn’t have a Sam’s Card by now? They got amazing shit in there), and buy a tent, a sweeping bag, a grill, some Maxi Pads, and a Bon Jovi poster. So, again, no supplies. Nature will provide you with everything you need. The two best ways to prove you strength and craftiness is 1) starting a cozy fire and 2) killing a rabbit and rubbing its blood all over your face. Once she sees how manly and resourceful you are she is certain to open the imperial gates to the Clam Palace. STAT. You’ll have that C-chowder dripping from your beard quicker than you can say “Jackie Robinson Erection.”

Okay, so maybe you don’t feel comfortable killing a rabbit, or maybe you’re a pussy baby who can’t start a fire. Still, there are ways to use the wildlife for romantic purposes without killing all the animals. For instance, while your lover is busy searching for kindling, try to find a snake hole. You will know a snake hole because it is usually surrounded by skeletons of dead animals. Once you find it, pop your chode in the hole and wait for the snake to take the bait. You may have to wiggle it around a little. Don’t be afraid to be almost TOO aggresive. Once it strikes, hurry back to your lover and explain that she needs to deepthroat all the way to the roots of your chode-tree in order to get all the venom out. It’s as easy as that. And if you don’t feel comfortable killing the rabbit or having a snake bite your Shlong-adan Milosevic, then you are the biggest pussy in the whole world and probably shouldn’t be camping or even attempting to get someone to fuck you. And you know what?! Sharon’s too good for you, anyway. It’s obvious that you don’t give a SHIT about her.  She’s the greatest girl in the world, and she deserves someone who will treat her with love and unparalled respect. Letting Sharon go was the biggest mistake I ever made in my life and I know that now. And If I could jump in a time machine and win her back, goddamn it I would. You know what? You’re not even worth it , dude. Why don’t you just go jump in a lake. Dickhead. 

Anyways, once the sun goes down is when camping really heats up! Make sure you bring your acoustic so you can woo her with some heady jamz around the fire, bro. You don’t play? Don’t worry about it. All you really need to learn is ”All For You” by Sister Hazel and you’ll be getting such a big helping of that roast beef deluxe that you’ll be begging her for more Horsey sauce.

Once you’re done, it’s time for a little f-u-n to liven things up. Two words: Slug Wars. It’s when you climb in your sleeping bags head first, zip up, and battle like a couple of slimy slugs! So romantic. Slug Wars makes for great foreplay. In fact, the first three lil’ baby fetuses I ever made with my tadpole spermz (all aborted) were the result of Slug Wars. It’s a regular AFROdisiac. I spelled it like that, with the caps and all, to emphasize how well it works on the sisters. Black girls, that is.

And when you get tired of that, climb on in the tent for some shut eye. Wait….Hold on….Whats that rustling of leaves outside the tent? Is it a bear? Oh my god, there’s a fucking bear outside! You could possibly only have a few more minutes to live before that bear tears you limb from limb like Eminem did to Nick Cannon. What better time for some intense fear-sex? Fear-sex is the most passionate kind of sex because you have nothing to lose. And more times than not that rustling noise is just an armadillo or a gust of wind, although sometimes it’s a bear. In which case, he’ll kill you and eat your torso. But these are the risks we take for passion.

If you follow these simple tips, I can guarantee that you will not only having a camping trip to remember for years to come, but it will reupholster the proverbial futon that is your relationship. Go ahead and quote me on that. All that we ask in return for this information is that, you make a video, add some bitchin’ special effects, and send us a copy. Not to do anything gross to or anything. Ew, no way. We just like to see all the happy couples that we’ve helped. We do this for you. Now, you do IT for us.

Just the Three of Us: You and I and Me Too

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People come up to us all the time, like at least like twice every six months and say, “Hey, contributors of LouBegaCalledHeWantsHisFedoraBack.com, how many people read your blog? You must be like ultra famous and have so much money and can have so much sex with anyone one of your desired gender.” Yeah, we get it. So what’s the answer? What do you want us to say? Do you want us to give you the cool answer? That thousands of people read the blog, that we are more popular than most forms of birth control, and that we just added 2,500 shares of Orville Redenbacher to our stock portfolio. Is that what you want us to say?

Here’s the thing, baby. That’s not who we are. Yeah, we could give you the cool answer and probably get our swerve on witcha in the back of my Jeep Grande Cherokee Laredo . Yeah, we could tear that shit up for about 20-25 minutes. Yeah, we might even accidentally make a baby in that booty-hole. But that’s not what we’re about.

We’re about being real. We are just normal human beings like you. So how many people read the blog? Just three. Us and you. You and us.

Every evening we dim the lights, pour a glass of Pino Greeg, turn on some contemporary jazz at an appropriate volume, and sit down to write these blog posts. Just for you. Sure, all the fame, fortune,  pussy, diamond cakes, and jing-a-ling ding-a-ling is nice, I mean who could complain, but that’s not why we do it. We do it cuz we loves you, baby girl. We could have my broker tell me that delicious, buttery Orville Redenbacher just went up 7 points and be ecstatic, but it doesn’t even begin to compare to the feeling of sheer exuberance we get just hearing you say those three little magic words: Yourblog made mewalkagain. God, you make me feel like a kid again! Everything is so fresh. and I know it’s cheesy, so sue me, but I just want to make a vest out of your skin and wear it everywhere. That way you’ll always be right here. Right. Here.

So this ones just for you out there. The dreaming infant that, through perseverance and nourishment, grew into a man/woman with a dream. Thanks for 10 great years! We’ll keep churnin’ em out, if you keep readin’ em.

Top 5 Reasons I’m a Better Rapper Than You

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1. I have more money than you.

2. I have a lot more heterosexual sex than you do.

3. The heterosexual sex I’m having all the time is with much more attractive people than the people you have heterosexual sex with, that is, if you’re even having sex.

4. I shoot much bigger guns than you, and more often, as well.

5. The sex you probably aren’t having is probably homosexual sex, which we all know, doesn’t count and makes you less good at rapping.

Bonus Round:

6. I wear ankle socks