Do You Know How to Make Love Like a Porn Star?

I read Jenna Jameson’s “How to Make Love Like a Porn Star” years ago.

I’ve just recently read it over and it’s really not as enthralling as you’d imagine a porn star’s autobiography should be. Actually, it’s pretty disappointing.

For all the entertainment it lacks, you at least get a blog’s worth of shite to read among the 600 pages of utter insipidness.

Do you want to become a porn star? Do you want to be famous? Are you one of those people that have been in a shitty relationship and stays in the shitty relationship because you’re an idiot?

Jenna will teach you everything you need to know about all those things!

The Thing That Can Destroy Us All

There’s this thing that happens to all of us and is by far the most irritating thing any human being could ever experience.

This ‘thing’ doesn’t restrict itself to race, age, or gender. It’s an exasperating experience in which its sole purpose is to piss you the fuck off and overwhelm you with angst, distraught, anxiety, and a desperate feeling to want to rip your fucking skin off.

This shite will literally make you want to punch, beat, shoot, and kill yourself.

What I’m talking about is something that has occurred for millenniums. It has been around since the creation of man. It could very well be traced to the birth of dinosaurs, and perhaps even further to the dawn of the first bacteria.

This is a glitch in the matrix. It’s such a significant glitch that God likely experiences this as well. I am absolutely certain Jesus Christ suffered from this; and if Jesus suffered from this, there’s no way any ordinary human could ever escape the torment of this mysterious displeasure.

So what is this ‘thing’?

It’s something so simple, yet so painstakingly vexing.

What I’m speaking of is...

How to Make Anyone Do Anything

There’s one word in the English language that can pretty much get you what you want 94% of the time.

Your aim in life is probably to become a manipulative bastard like me, so you’re probably dying to know what that word is. Then you can unleash your manipulative magic on the world.

Before I tell you what the word is, you must understand that with great power, comes great responsibility.

I’m neither responsible nor give a shite. I model myself after House M.D. so I’ve been honing these manipulative powers for years. You, however, must tread lightly as you begin to master this art.

There’s a social psychologist named Ellen Langer that performed an experiment in which she asked to cut in line to use a copy machine. She began her experiment by asking the following:

“Excuse me, I have five pages. May I use the Xerox machine?”

60% of the people she asked said okay.

60% is a high conversion rate. With results like these, Ellen Langer must have a very commanding voice, or must be very hot. Right?

Wrong.

The point of this psychological experiment wasn’t just to poll the percentage of people that would agree, but also to test the effectiveness of one word.

The Dating Game is a Dangerous Game to Play

You ever meet a woman (or man) you’re really, really attracted to... you talk, you laugh, things get hot, and sexy times ensue...

You kiss... you touch... you groan... and when you finally get her (or his) clothes off, you find out that she (or he) is actually not a she (or he) but indeed a he (or she)!?

Yeah, me neither.

The good thing about relationships is that you always know what you have. The bad thing about relationships is that you’re in a relationship.

(Un)fortunately I’m not in the dating scene. I have a relationship with myself as well as six other women which rotate daily, excluding Sundays.

On Sundays, as gods tend to do, I rest.

I also indulge in NFL porn.

Dating is tricky. There’s a plethora of weirdoes – men and women alike – prancing about pretending to be your ideal mate. It’s hard to meet a decent person because everyone is a fucking liar.

This is completely unacceptable. Thus, I’ve outlined a plan so perfect it guarantees 100% positive results.

This is Why You’re a Lesbian

Hey fellas, did you ever fantasise about your mother when you were a little boy?

Congratulations! You experienced what Freud called the Oedipus Complex. No need to worry here. According to Freud, thinking about banging your mum is perfectly normal.

But wait! There’s also something called the Electra Complex.

Pop quiz, hotshot: If the Oedipus Complex is when the boy becomes fixated on his mother, what is the Electra Complex?

Eddy Blake Plans to Hijack a Radio Station

People fall in love with anything that’s on the radio. It doesn’t matter if it sucks, what matters is that it’s on the radio.

So, I’m going to hijack a radio station, pull my cock out and slap the Dj’s face with it, demand to be played every five minutes of every hour, and then you will like me.

You won’t like me because my music’s so awesome, you’ll like me because you’re fucking idiots and you can’t help it – you’re conditioned to like whatever is on the radio regardless of how much it does or doesn’t suck.

Have the electromagnetic waves hypnotised you yet? Have the subliminal messages successfully brainwashed you? Do you long to hear the hypnotic frequency of my voice?

Excellent.

The Mysterious Case of the Swollen Uvula

If you have no idea what a swollen uvula is, you can’t possibly relate to this torture.

If, however, you’ve woken up and felt the impending doom awaiting you, you are probably seeking some peace of mind.

Do not worry. I’m here to save your life.

I had a swollen uvula for a couple of days and thought I would surely die. I’ve no idea what caused it, but snogging floozies probably didn’t help.

The cause of a swollen uvula is not certain. But a couple of things linked to swollen uvulas are drinking and snoring.

I was definitely drinking.

I was definitely snoring.

When I woke up, my throat was so dry I couldn’t swallow my own saliva. Drinking water didn’t help. It felt like something was lodged in my throat. I assume it’s a piece of food but any attempt to swallow it or spit it back out fails. I try to Heimlich manoeuvre the supposed food. No luck.

I deal with this the entire day. Then, just before going to sleep, I walk to the bathroom, get as close as possible to the mirror, open my mouth as wide as I can, and what I saw shook me to my core.

My uvula was HUGE.

“Holy shit!” I scream, panicking. “What is this? I’m dying!”

Does a swollen uvula cause death?

I Have Spotted Trout Syndrome

I’ve been diagnosed with what’s known in the medical community as “Spotted Trout Syndrome.”

“WTF is Spotted Trout Syndrome?”

Ah, it looks something like that picture there.

When you’ve got something like this on your hand, you’ve got some explaining to do. People’s curiosity is at first expressed by subtle confusion. You know they want to ask what it is, but they hesitate slightly cos that’s the kind of world we live in.

They ask nonetheless.

“What is that?”

“It was just a little brown spot,” I say, “and it just kept spreading.”

The confusion is momentarily enlightened. Then fear sets in. Then they silently debate placing a call to the Centre for Disease Control.

I enlighten them some more, narrating the unfortunate sequence of events that took place thereafter.

“The diagnosis was unknown,” I exclaim. “But a highly reputable doctor took special interest in my case.”

“It’s Spotted Trout Syndrome,” said House M.D. as he popped a mouthful of Vicodin.

It is apparently contracted when you foolishly agree to become your girl’s self-tanning guinea pig. Four different lotions were trialled on four different sections of each hand. None initially worked.

CUT TO : 2 HOURS LATER : BIG BROWN SPOT ON RIGHT HAND.

This was last Sunday. The goddamn thing is still there. If you’re looking into self-tanning lotions, this is the one to get.

If only I could remember which one it was.

Cheers.

How to Spot a Douchebag

You’re probably wondering: What’s a douchebag? Ay, I shall tell ye the epic tale of one.

There are numerous kinds of douchebags, and after reading this you shall be fully versed in the fake-pimp variety.

It all started when Carlos told me of his chance encounter with a douche named John. The chance encounter was orchestrated through mutual friends.

Carlos was minding his business when all a sudden his ears perk at the tune being sung by a douchebag uttering cunning chatter to his foolish cell phone girlfriend, heretofore referred to as CPG.

“I’m just scared you’ll hurt me,” says CPG.

Comforting declarations of love promptly release from douchebag’s mouth. His words reassure her suspicions of getting hurt. Douchebag is Prince Charming. He is her Knight in shining armour.

Carlos intrudes on the sacred conversation, baffled by the douchey absurdity. His baffled state stems from knowledge of douchebag’s current girlfriend. CPG has no idea douchebag has a girlfriend.

I Killed a Mouse

I never realised how inefficient the old school mouse was.

I also never realised I was injected with a super soldier serum and suffered from extreme gamma radiation.

But I’m getting ahead of myself...

Sleep time came to an abrupt halt this morning as the sun dickishly shot its violent rays through my window and punched my retina. I curse the sun for being unusually bright this morning. I should’ve known it would all turn to shite from here.

Today’s horoscope (horror-scope?) for Sagittarius: “You’re fucked.”

Hmm.

I stumble around my room like a drunken fuck and sit at my desk. I remove the recently re-charged batteries from its battery charger and place them in the Logitech wireless mouse. The batteries make love with the mouse and its new-age laser shines radiantly as it orgasms.

Then light begins to blink intermittently, then it grows dim, and then it shuts off abruptly, still horny and unsatisfied.

The batteries engage in an uninspiring pull-out/re-insert pornography. The wireless mouse feels nothing. In fact, it’s dead.

My efforts to resuscitate the mouse are futile. CPR and de-fibrillation procedures are pointless. Experiments on other technology take place using the same batteries. Experiments conclude the batteries are still functional. New, advanced, non-rechargeable batteries are sacrificed in the attempt to save the mouse.

All attempts fail.

Time of death: 10:15 A.M.

R.I.P. logitech wireless mouse.