I'm sorry!!!!

I know whoever's been reading this blog expects more articles but I've been busy with lots of rewriting lately and classes have just started up. I already have circles underneath my eyes. :(
The best I can do right now is a poem I had to write for my poetry class with the weasel of a teacher I don't get along with. It's nothing brilliant like my poem Fat Stripper, but I have to tone it down for class. Anyway, we had to follow a certain format. I think it's pretty decent.

Nighttime behind the grocery store.
Inside my dad's red car
with the yellow girl in
black pants. Her green apron
made the backseat smell like

Latte. My eager hands struggled
behind her back like life
or death. Three... two... one...
She saved my day...
They still don't live up

to the hype. But I'll
never forget the new touch
that was old to my
friends. Warm like hot lava.
I burned my fingers off.

She pinned a red badge
of courage on my neck.
I would be a god
for a week. The proof
would stay on my hand.

Two kids on a dinner
break and we ruined our
appetites on each other. Thirty
minutes wasn't enough but more
shifts had yet to come.

Prose-ish

I was in a prosey mood tonight. Why? Fuck if I know. I think I'm anticipating my Writer's Workshop class with this professor I don't get along with. I need to write 20-30 pages of fiction for the class so I started early. Now, I'm used to the terse eloquence of screenwriting, so don't be too critical. It's hard to alternate between the two styles, especially when you work with one more than the other. Anyway, here's a sample:

Johnny Craven had writer’s block. He’d spent the past hour staring at his autographed copy of Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak. Did Maurice Sendak ever get writer’s block? Probably not. After all, he was Maurice Sendak, author of Where the Wild Things Are… and a bunch of other brilliant children’s books that Johnny Craven didn’t write. But how did Maurice Sendak get so good? He didn’t have his PhD in Children’s Storybook Writing, not like Johnny Craven. Maurice Sendak didn’t spend his weekends attending Children’s Storybook Writing improvement workshops or drawing idea webs on college-rule notebook paper – a highly effective method of brainstorming. No, Maurice Sendak didn’t do any of those things. He won Newberry Medals.

For the first time in an hour, Johnny Craven looked up at his blank Wordperfect document. Microsoft Word was much too costly for second-grade teachers. The cursor blinked. On good nights Johnny imagined it was a pretty lady winking at him over and over again. On bad nights she was still winking, but only because she had something in her eye. Maybe a bug or something. Maybe a Newberry Medal.

Johnny carefully positioned his small fingers on the home row: ASDF JKL; He shut his eyes and started to type. Scary things like words and self-doubt went away when he couldn’t see them. The click-clacking of keys picked up in speed, tap dancing big black letters onto the white of his outdated word processing software. His fingers moved like those of a secretary with an illegitimate child. Desperate yet proud. Independent. Not reliant on no man to pay da billz. Now the ideas were flowing. Maurice Sendak would be jealous. Oh yes he would. Johnny smiled. He didn’t smile often. Well, not in public at least. Children would ask him where his hairnet and ice cream scoop were when he did. Oftentimes he’d find toothbrushes and Carefree gum on his desk in the morning. He suspected the other teachers but he couldn’t be sure. He tried not to let it bother him. After all, he was a writer. A Children’s Storybook Writer. Writers didn’t have to look good. Or brush their teeth.

Johnny’s girlish fingers stopped sashaying all over the keyboard. It was time to see his genius… Yjr bsy g;re pbrt yjr vsbr… and so on. Johnny Craven had found his way off the home row.

Had this ever happened to Maurice Sendak?

Back to school...

Back to Kentucky. Back to the land of living stereotypes. Back to the most uneducated state in the US. Back to the state "Where Education Pays!" Back to Wal-Mart. Back to fat-crotched women on motorcarts buying whole milk and ground beef. Back to pickup trucks being driven at supersonically slow speeds. Back to smoking sections in fast food restaurants. Back to Randys. Back to Travises. Back to meth addicts and mullets. Back to feeling like I'm better than everybody else this state. Back to the joke of the United States. Back to inbreds. Back to people buying cigarettes by the carton. Back to people who rent Dolph Lundgren movies. Back to pimped-out Caprices and boat-cars that aren't worth pimping out.

Back to the empty, flat lands of no ambition. Back to the place where dreams don't leave the bowling alley, where children are born to bear more children. Back to the birthplace of the rat-tail. Back to Bush supporters. Back to Fundamentalists. Back to Mountain Dew's target demographic. Back to number 8 stickers on piece of shit vehicles. Back to wigger teenagers blasting old rap music from blown speakers. Back to the town of no goals and immediate settlement. Back to Waffle House. Back to fat girls in Mustangs. Back to ramshackle trailer parks. Back to people who come from counties; not towns. Back to those idiotic, unoriginal "Getting Lucky in Kentucky" t-shirts. Back to nothing worth talking about. Back to things I talk about.

Back to Western Kentucky University. Back to battling with conservative professors over my non-traditional work. Back to looking at the roman numeral IIII on all four sides of the clocktower. Back to reading the sports program slogan: Spread the Red! Back to walking past Diddle Arena. Diddle. Fucking Diddle. Back to hearing about the baskeball team losing to Northern Southwestern Arkansas Tech State A&M Wesleyan. Back to bottle-blonde sorority girls who wear too much makeup. Back to hyena-like giggles and big, tacky, canvas bags with funny-looking Greek letters. Back to fratboys in sandals and frayed shorts driving jeeps with no doors. Back to said douchebags throwing spirals in front of "the house" and listening to loud, Southern rap. Back to said jerkoffs hoping bottle-blondes will walk by and notice them and want to fuck them.

Back to zoning out in boring classes. Back to learning nothing I couldn't learn on wikipedia.org in a fraction of the time. Back to menial assignments for point values. Back to academia and the intellectual masturbation being taught -- expensive cocktail-party knowledge. Back to people trying to fulfill an image. Back to English majors that drink coffee and wear scarves in non-scarf weather. Back to said shitheads and their box-framed glasses and need to impress everybody with their extensive vocabulary and Criterion DVD collections. Back to English professors worshipping these cocksuckers. Back to these children and their clove cigarettes and deep appreciation for everything black and white. Back to the shitty school newspaper. Back to the supremely unfunny humor column written by the black girl who hangs out with the English majors. Back to her relying on nostalgia and apostrophes for laughs ("remember Double Dare? y'know what I'm talkin' 'bout?"). Back to me being an English major who hates coffee but loves the smell. Back to idiot jocks and rednecks and lazy people taking pointless Sociology classes. Back to them thinking it's a practical field of work. Back to them thinking they're smart for majoring in something that ends in "ogy." Back to Sociology being my second major because the film minor classes are barely ever offered.

Back to buying time before I have to support myself. Back to growing on my own. Learning on my own. Honing my craft. Back to skinny freshmen asking me how much I bench. Back to people being afraid of me. Back to intimidating people without knowing it. Back to lots of mediocre food. Back to hoping my roommate won't snore. Back to limited fridge space. Back to a world that is high school on a larger scale.

Back...

Which would you rather step in?

A pile of dog shit, a pile of horse shit, or a pile of human shit? I know dog shit, horse shit, and human shit tend to vary in shapes and textures and sizes, but for the sake of this question let's say that each pile is perfectly shat out in the shape and size of a cereal box. One of the smaller cereal boxes that you'd buy at a convenience store but pay double for because you don't feel like walking the extra hundred feet to get it in a grocery store.

So you have a pile of dog shit, a pile of horse shit, and a pile of human shit lying on the ground in cereal box form. Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Is it hot? Dry? Frozen? Wet? Is it clumpy? Has the dog, horse, or human been eating off of Taco Bell's dollar menu (I'm fuuuullll!)?" I tell you, when I think of cereal box-shaped shit I think of hot shit. Like a tray of fresh-baked brownies. So, for question's sake, this shit is going to be hot.

Hot, cereal box-shaped, dog, horse, or human shit. Which would you rather step in? Right now you're probably thinking about your shoes. Are you wearing your nice shoes? Are you wearing heels? No. In my mind, we're all wearing black velcro British Knights that we may have possibly won off of Double Dare on Nickelodeon. And we're wearing shorts too. We don't want the dog, horse, or human shit getting all over the bottom of our Old Navy khakis or pantyhose. Capris could work, but are a major risk factor considering the pressure of the step is not a controlled variable (you may stomp into the shit if you like).

So, taking everything into consideration, which would you rather step in? Here's my list:

1. Horse
2. Human
3. Dog

The logic behind my decisions:

In my opinion, horse shit is the least smelliest of the bunch. The stool of the equine sits atop the shit caste system. It's reminiscent of walking across dewy farm land on a foggy, brisk-aired, country morning, admiring the land we stole from the natives, and stepping in something that's probably considered a delicacy somewhere in Asia. Horse shit is glamorous shit. Marvelous shit. Stepping in horse shit is only second to forgetting to put your DVD in the case when you return to Hollywood Video at the bottom of the list of "Things You Wish You Hadn't Done." Bottom is good. The top would be something like marriage or visiting Iraq or being a fan of Jesse McCartney or Ryan Cabrera (or both).

Human shit would be weird to step in, but I could get used to it. I'd rather live in a society where dogs walked humans and pretended to pick up human shit but didn't. Dog shit is just foul, but I'll get to that in a second. As humans, we've developed a tolerance for our own stool, no matter how small that tolerance may be. Stepping in people turds might freak some people out, perhaps on a cannibalistic level. I could see somebody playing touch football, slipping on some hobo excrement, and feeling like they just ate the poor bum for breakfast (bad pun not intended). Still, to me, human shit is tolerable. Unless it comes from a female. Actually that's impossible because girls don't shit. Especially good-looking ones. BAH-BAH-BAH-BAH! I CAN'T HEAR YOU!

Dog shit is despicable. Man's best friend produces shoe's worst enemy on a massive scale. Therein lies the problem. Humans hate dog shit and dogs love to shit. We don't pick it up. We may pretend to, but we don't. This means there's a large amount of shit out there. Intolerable shit that is not being disposed of.

I stepped in a pile of dog shit last month. Prior to last month, it had been at least a good year since I landed in Rover's chocolate pudding. Good odds, you say? Bullshit. I've never stepped in human shit or horse shit before. My feet are batting 1000% when it comes to that. And no, stepping in dog shit does not build a tolerance for it. It fuels the flames of hatred.

Scenario: You don't know you've stepped in dog shit. You're standing around with a whole bunch of people, shooting the shit, and you're thinking, "Man, something smells like shit." Everybody else is thinking it too, but nobody's pointing figures. Everybody just keeps talking about Pokemon and gas prices. Later you get home and you take off your shoe and the smell, the fucking potent smell, hits you right in the face. You look at the bottom of your shoe and you see what you think is mud with grass stuck in it. And you smell it. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. Then you think about the afternoon bull session with Ned and Sandra and your other coworkers and you get embarrassed because you're convinced they all think you smell like shit. Dog shit. You can't sleep. You go into work the next day wearing extra cologne or perfume and when you get home that night you worry everybody thought you were trying to over-compensate for smelling like dog shit. Now there are two avenues you can pursue here: suicide or resignation.

Blame Spot and his Iams lamb formula.

(Note: If you read this and find this mildly entertaining please leave your "shit-list" in the comments section.)

Girls Gone Flaccid

"Look at those tits!... She's got nice ones... Perky nipples... Not bad... Uh huh... Yeah... Let's watch something else."

If you have ever actually sat down and tried to watch a Girls Gone Wild video then you know that after the sixth pair of tits you become desensitized to drunken nudity for a short period of time. The video serves as kind of a titty flash grenade, which is why I don't understand why some women are so anti-GGW. As none of you probably know, I was recently banned from Facebook because I pissed off a half-deaf, Fundamentalist sorority girl who subsequently had a large portion of her 1100 e-friends and sorostitute sisters report my account.

How did this start? GGW. She used the go-to feminist argument: "It's setting us back hundreds of years." Thing is, she's not a feminist. She's a prude. She's so much better than everybody because her hymen's still intact. She'd like to think her virginity is a personal choice, but one look at her mug tells you it's everybody else's personal choice. I told her to dustbust the cobwebs from her vagina. She called me a pervert (thank you) and mentioned something about how masturbation leads to STDs. I told her standing in front of the showerhead for too long is still a sin.

But that's a whole different story. The issue that arose from that altercation was not her being a sheltered, red-state bitch who thinks God has already chosen her mate for her and it's her job to find him (I wish I had her myspace link for you guys). No, the issue is that she thinks GGW is exploitative.

I disagree.

The girls may be encouraged to drink; they may be encouraged to give bad head; they may be encouraged to do it on film, but they're not being coerced. Some will argue that heavy encouragement is tantamount to coercion. Some will also be wrong. Bottom line: these girls are letting it happen. They know it's happening. They just don't realize the consequences. When they finally do, it's not their fault. No, it's GGWs fault.

Let me break it down like this: you're an old Korean man. You open up a Pawn Shop in the ghetto. Why? Because it will do good business. Now let's say somebody acquires a gun from your Pawn Shop. He then uses said firearm to clap a young nigga for his brand new Iversons. Is that your fault? From a fucked up perspective, yes. You sold him the gun, therefore you're responsible, right? Fuck no. You're just trying to make a living, you old Korean bastard. But why didn't you open up a convenience store instead? Because convenience stores get robbed. You watched Menace II Society. You know that.

But that's besides the point. Let's get back to the task at hand: Creator Joe Francis has made tits boring. That takes skill. Real girls getting naked? No way, man! I remember seeing my first GGW commercial back in high school: that blonde girl in the shower. She looked like everybody's sister's slutty friend. And we could see her naked. For a price. Yes, GGW was going to kick some serious ass. Then I watched my first GGW video with some friends. What a fucking letdown. The kid tried to act all cool because he was the only one who had a GGW video, but you could tell he got embarrassed after we started watching it. He kept asking all of us if we wanted to play Tony Hawk instead. We did.

Francis pushes units on prospect. GGW has never been good; it's an illusion of good. And now here we are in 2006 and GGW is the visual equivalent of the phrase "What happens in BLANK stays in BLANK!" How ad-nauseam.

What I want to know is who still buys this shit? You need a credit card to order. Why not buy porn instead? Seriously. Jerking off to GGW is like jerking off to the E! channel past midnight. Jerking to GGW is like jerking to Jessica Alba in Sin City. Jerking to GGW is like jerking to National Geographic magazine, only with hotter chicks. Jerking to GGW is like jerking to a GGW commercial. All of these you can do for free. GGW actually has these porn-ish interludes that prove to be the highlight of the videos, but if that's the case then why not just buy amateur porn? You won't need to fast-forward through the tits or skip through chapters of tits to get to what you really want.

So who keeps buying this shit? Fratboys, I think. Dirty old men who don't want to feel too dirty since this doesn't actually constitute porno. Porno is arousing. Nevertheless, GGW is pushing enough units to finance new videos -- the most recent being the Girls Gone Wild Games, which looks to be exactly like the Real World/Road Rules Challenge on MTV except without tops. And instead of being refereed by some washed-up X-Games athlete, it's a snaggle-toothed midget calling the shots. Did I mention he's drunk while he's doing it?

Wow! Get the lube!

The only thing worse than the videos are the fucking commercials with that tired, beachy music and girls who will be overweight in ten years pretending to be bisexual for dollar-fifty trucker caps. I'm haunted by the one with F-list comedian Doug Stanhope shouting, "Show me where babies feed! It's natural! It's natural!" You may remember him as "that other guy" on the new Man Show. He's so unfunny he can't even get a laugh when he takes his dick out.

GGW recently came under fire from women's advancement groups for excluding minority women in their videos, thereby violating code 1.3 of the Equal Opportunity Slut Footage Act. I'm serious: women's groups got upset that sluts of all races and creeds weren't being represented. Don't blame Joe Francis; blame his audience. As harsh as it may be, men of all races ONLY want to watch white girls take off their tops because, for these minority men, the white girl represents the unattainable. If you tell some Hispanic laborer that he can have a blonde wife he'll say "que?" But if you say it to him in Spanish he'll laugh in your face. He knows he'll never dunk his plain donut into the sweet, creamed coffee of the spoiled white bitch he works for unless he wants to catch a rape charge. The least he can do is fantasize about her daughter.

I guess I just answered one of my earlier questions. Who keeps buying this shit? Minority men. Joe Francis may be a fucking moron, but he's a savvy moron. He knows Black and Hispanic GGW videos are already available in the form of rap videos. Ever watch late night BET? That's what a Black GGW looks like.

So what's my point? What point am I trying to make here? You know, I'm not even sure. I thought I had an agenda and an argument, but now that I read back through my words I realize I really haven't made any points. I'm just talking. I guess that's the price of some stream-of-consciousness type shit. I'm just rambling, but that's okay because I've included rambling in my blog subtitle. That makes it acceptable.

Hmm.....

I guess what I'm trying to say is tits are great. Videos of tits just being tits tend to get boring. It's like listening to a song you really like six times in a row; you'll still like the song but you'll be tired of it for the time being.

Let's keep tits interesting. Oh, and somebody show Doug Stanhope where bottom-tier entertainers feed:

Joe Francis.

A,Memo,From,The,Comma,... ,

To: People

From: Comma

RE: You guys being fucking stupid.


My name is Comma. Regardless of what you may think, I am not a period with a tail on it. I cannot be substituted for a good old-fashioned space and I am not what's keeping your little brother from waking up. No, my job is to extend sentences and allow pauses for speech and thought. As you may well know, I haven't been doing my fucking job lately. But that's not my fault. I'm an entry-level tool here at Grammar Corp. This means I have to run errands on top of my daily duties. If xPinkx69gurl needs me to splice together a sentence I have to splice together the sentence, even though I should be preceding conjunctions and ending clauses. Needless to say, the paperwork on my desk is piling up.

I'm pulling upwards of one hundred hours a week and I don't get paid overtime. I've got an ulcer. I think my wife, Less-Than, is fucking around on me with Backspace from down the street. My little Less-Than is making me feel like less-than shit. I suspect she's taken Backspace as a lover because he has the means to do away with me for good. Plus he's the only one who can truly make love to her besides Left-Arrow. But I try, dammit, I try. I'm just spineless. I'm spineless. I can't say no and it's killing my life. Stop asking me to do so much, goddammit!

Period's in danger of losing his job and my best friend Semicolon already lost his. Everybody forgot why he was hired in the first place. They'd stare at him strangely and walk past his desk to put an assignment on mine. One that he could do better; one that he was trained to do (that's for you, old friend). Field reports from English teachers suggest that the students just don't care anymore. According to the reports, gangs and oral sex are of most interest these days. Why think when you can suck? Why become educated when the assholes over at Microsoft Word fix everything for you?

Don't get me wrong. You hire me to do freelance work at Microsoft Word and I'm happy. You fuck up and I'm underlined in green. Boom. Problem fixed. Yeah, problem fixed until you have me go over to Instant Messenger or MSN or the Ryan Cabrera Fan Club message board. Then what?

Please, I beg you. Use me correctly. I'm good at what I do. I'm really fucking good at what I do. Let me do it and you won't be sorry. Otherwise, deal with the consequences. Disgruntled punctuation marks are not pleasant to deal with!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sincerely,

,

Comma

Not good at anything? Forge a future with pregnancy!

So you've tried everything: community college, American Idol, club drugs -- all of which were met with little to no success (stay hydrated next time!). You're not good at anything. You fucking suck. You're the idiot granny on the Price is Right who can't make it off of contestants row because she refuses to bid $1 when the Marine, Housewife, and College student have already clearly overbid. You were born with less talent than a high school talent show. But that's okay.

You have a vagina.

And as long as you have a vagina you can get boys to like you. Or so you think. After he tells you everything you want to hear ("You're hot," "I'm clean") you let him pound you like a foster child placed in the wrong home. You'll close your eyes and smile at the romantic images that run through your head: holding hands, sharing a snow cone, cuddling by the fireplace, kissing him at your wedding while everybody stands up and claps for your happiness. You'll drown out the squishy sex-noises and make yourself hear the song "Collide," thereby making your fantasy a montage. You won't realize that "Collide" is a breakup song because it sounds good with trite, movie imagery and because you're fucking stupid.

And then he pulls out late. At first you're upset. You say "Omigod!" a lot and try to douche out the rogue seed with a warm bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper that's usually reserved for visits from grandma and her diabetes. Your montage is replaced with disgusting images of Maury Povich and sassy fat black women in the audience who yell, "Girl if I wuz yo momma I'd done smack you upside yo head by now," which will undoubtedly be met with applause from other audience members who are all living their lives soooooo much better than you are.

But you calm down soon. Maybe a baby isn't a bad thing. You can name it something biblical, like Jedediah, or you can be one of those annoying women who rattle off first and middle names at the same time, like Jason Taylor or Illegitimate Child. You start to look forward to your pregnancy. All that time you spent looking for love can now be spent thinking of ways you can use your child to make you feel good about yourself. Your stomach starts to bulge. It becomes a topic of conversation with preggo fetishists and jealous mothers who wish they could go back to the days when their children were cute and malleable. As the bulge grows larger you realize that the world has shifted from its heliocentric orbit and now revolves around you. Suddenly you have friends, many of whom are Marine girlfriends and hope to be well on their way to your position before Travis is shipped off to die for his country. Jealous of all the attention you're getting, the baby's father says he wants to be a man and take care of his child. You push him away and sue for child support because you're an attention-hog.

The child is born a bastard. You name it Michael Thomas. Your attention level is at an all time high right now. You dress Michael Thomas up in cute shit that makes other women gush. You make more friends because Michael Thomas is just so fucking adorable.

But then he starts to grow. The compliments stop and Michael Thomas is quickly becoming his father. Bills pile up and the clerical job you earned with pity isn't cutting it. But, for some fucking reason, somebody still wants to date you. This guy is convinced that you're his better half, even though he has a decent job and a 401k. Did I mention that he just adores little Michael Thomas? He calls him "Little guy" a lot and tells you that he can't wait to play catch with him and teach him how to fish and become a good man.


There is no explanation for this shit. Maybe he grew up in a house full of females and wants to be the positive male role model that his father never got to be. Maybe he wants a family he can slay when the demons finally decide to possess him. It doesn't matter. He'll marry you on one condition: you stay at home and be a full time mom. Instead of becoming dollar signs, your eyes become sperm swimmers. Here is a man who will let you leech off of him as long as you indulge his fucking Jerry Maguire and provide him with little Jonathan Lipnicki's that he can love and be annoyed by and blame later on down the road when you start to develop marital problems.

Until then, the road is paved with umbilical cords and placentas. Whenever Michael Thomas starts to get old, you'll have another, and so on, hence completing your journey from dumb bitch to dumb married bitch with annoying children.

If you ever get divorced you can rent your vagina out as a bungee cord.

Prevent Injury During Face-Fucking

Yes, this entry contradicts my previous entry. No, I don't give a fuck.

Midgets can comfortably give oral sex to full-sized humans. You would think that sitting in a kiddie chair would accurately simulate such a natural and exciting experience, but you're wrong. A curved back is no match for an erect spine when the mouth must perform these feats of endurance. Too much stress is placed on the neck. This means hardcore face-fucking sessions may result in whiplash. Whiplash is not tantamount to your partner's pleasure. Therefore, unless you are a midget, get your face fucked at your own discretion. Unless you're a midget with another midget. Then face-fucking is just as dangerous. Unless one of you has paint can stilts with yarn handles readily availabe.

But if you're anything like me you realize that the injury is well worth the risk. But why does risk have to be a factor, especially when face-fucking is such a viable alternative to its evil cousin, penetration? It doesn't. Countermeasures can be taken to ensure your next face-fucking is both pleasurable and worry-free. Below are two of them:

1. Strengthen your Trapezius Muscles

Now ladies, I'm aware that you're afraid that so much as looking at a weight will turn you into an Amazonian she-beast. You couldn't be more right. This is why I recommend doing a lot of grocery shopping. In order to reap the full benefits you're going to need to park the vagina bullet or bastard shuttle (for the single or married, respectively) in the back of the parking lot. While shopping, use baskets instead of a cart. Next, grab as much skim milk as you can carry. Heavy, isn't it? Good. Now permeate the empty spots inside the basket with cans of chunk light tuna. The baskets will become even heavier. This is good. Now comes the hard part:

Shrug the baskets up like you're trying to touch your shoulders to your ears. Feel that burning sensation? Not the one in your cervix; the one around your neck. You have just activated your trapezius muscles. I know what you're thinking: "But Jeff, why can't I just Harlem Shake with suitcases full of hammers?" Because that would be too fun, ladies. With baskets in hand and shoulders shrugged, proceed to the self-checkout counter. Yes, you can stop to see if the Massengill douchebags are on sale, even though they're very affordable at regular price. This will add to the time under tension your muscles undergo.


I ask that you go to the self-checkout line because the Tammy's and Latoya's and Esther's and Lupe's and Gupta's and Timmy's that man the cash registers of the world have a knack for bagging your shit in a fucked up manner. At the self-checkout line YOU get to determine how your shit is arranged when it goes into a sack. That being said, equally distribute the milk and tuna into two separate plastic bags. Double bag these bags and head for your vehicle. Keep those trapezius muscles taut. Pretend they're NOT you're vagina. That might help.

When you get home, put the tuna and milk away so your husband won't have a reason to beat you. Not because you necessarily did anything wrong, but because things aren't going well at work and he's having second thoughts about not fucking the the neighbors's barely legal daughter with the tight ass and long flowing locks of perfect brown hair who's home from her first semester of college and thinks she knows how the fucking world operates because she took a few one-hundred-level courses like Sociology and Theatre Appreciaton.

But don't dwell on that. Pour yourself a glass of milk and whip up some tuna salad. For one. The protein in this hearty meal promotes muscle growth and recovery. Wash the dishes (you know why) and take a nap. Your husband may want to fuck your face when he gets home, but you can't let him. When he raises his fist in anger and you see that the cufflinks he's wearing aren't the ones you gave him for your anniversary, don't cry. Explain to him what you're doing. He won't strike you. I promise.

Do this once every other day until you feel like your neck is strong enough to withstand the force 0f a horny mandingo who just returned from a hood barbecue. Then let your husband's boss face-fuck you. Revenge will be sweet.

2. Have Your Face Fucked Against a Flat Surface. Preferably a Nerf Surface.

Nerf was made for face-fucking and spiral-friendly footballs.