You, too, can save the planet. Five simple steps.

Talking to a young co-worker the other day, I expected the teenage generation to have fully embraced recycling. I was wrong. Instead of supporting my pro-recycling stance, he came back ambivalent with a statistic that only 40 percent of goods that make it to the recycling center is actually reused. His point: why bother?

Forty percent is better than nothing, a dubious figure anyway. Granted, we in the U.S. don’t recycle nearly enough, judging by the public waste cans overflowing with paper, cardboard, aluminum, plastic and glass. It is beyond my comprehension how we ever got to the point individually and collectively of allowing wastefulness like full meals delivered through windows and disposed of in a heap of wrappers, plastic utensils and drink cups. This waste takes up a large percentage of landfills, I heard 20 percent, so we begin here, where you and I and all of us together can make a difference. We will save the Earth one person at a time by modifying everyday behaviors, and by our good examples (not berating people!), will teach others the less dramatic but still dramatically effective ways that all of us can contribute.

1. Use steel or hard plastic (less desirable) drink cups. The employee on the other side of the restaurant counter or window might be a little confused at first — say you agree with Dick Cheney that recycling is a personal virtue. Or say please fill this up instead of using a new container. Gatorade and similar thick bottles last forever and occupy my refrigerator full of water, juice and sometimes soda from two-liters, saving money and waste. Don’t freeze plastic bottles (releases compounds from the plastic). And make sure your container is clean and easy to handle. Those folks across the counter don’t make much for their efforts, and the last thing they want to handle is a sticky plastic bottle caked with small, deceased insects and grit off the bottom of your car. Soda is the highest profit item for fast food joints, and bottled water is hugely profitable, reason enough to drop the habit of both wasteful behaviors.

2. While on the subject of fast food, if you know you’re going to pull over and scarf a double cheeseburger from the drive-thru window, ask for your sandwich in a wrapper with no bag and one napkin. And tell them you don’t need a “spork” set with your apple pie. I don’t agree with Sheryl Crow about using only one piece of toilet paper – maybe she doesn’t realize not all of us crap rabbit droppings – but some waste is just…obviously wasteful. Requires a little forethought, but awareness is key to green living.

This gives me an opportunity to explain my brand of activism. Once, I watched a group of high school girls walk out of a Taco Bell and proceed to drop behind them a trail of waste – the bags the food came in, wrappers, sauce packets, napkins – topped off by flippantly tossing an empty drink cup that landed five feet from a trash can. You might be able to imagine how my ire flared. I really wanted to grab a passing cop, or take that cup and wing at their heads. Instead, I picked it up and peacefully placed it in the trash can, passed in front of girls and made brief eye contact to say, I took care of your mess this time. No harangues. No condemnation. Change comes slowly through persistence, awareness and long-term planning — and by setting a good example.

3. Plastic bags are the ultimate sin. They take centuries to break down, use petroleum products for their production and choke dolphins – really! Probably a few humans,m too. When the Russian went to the north pole and planted their flag they found a plastic bag. Apparently, Wal-mart had already staked its claim. I currently have around a thousand plastic bags waiting to go the recycler; I, too, am guilty of the sin of convenience and don’t always remember to bring bags from the stash to use at the grocery store. However, Lowe’s Foods has sweetened their recycling deal to earn 50 Green Points for every bag recycled. Bring in ten bags and you can earn a free stick of butter. A full load of groceries double-bagged could equal a gallon of milk. Have you seen the price of milk lately? Now I (and you) have motivation.

Keep a canvas shoulder bag in your car for after-work grocery runs, and as often as possible, leave the plastic bag behind unused at the store. The clerks are programmed to presume you’d like your apple wrapped in plastic and placed in a paper bag. Milk doesn’t need a bag, or twelve-packs or, as I once witnessed, cigarette packs. That’s right: clerk asked if the person in front of me wanted their purchase in a bag, and the customer actually said yes. Then, I kid you not, the person took out the cigarettes and tossed the wrappings and the bag in the street. I used to live in the outer-inner city, but I’ve seen these behaviors everywhere except Singapore. There, you carelessly toss a cigarette butt and they cane your ass. Here I’ve seen people dump their vehicle’s ashtray in a parking lot.

Use this link for more green shopping tips.

4. Use rechargeable batteries. Use rechargeable batteries. Use rechargeable batteries. Never throw away worn out Energizers (speaking of rabbits); keep a big jar under the sink and once in a while pack it away to a recycling center you can find by clicking this link.
I Googled ‘recycle batteries’ and turned up many, many resources branching way out into general recycling topics, but earth911.org is a comprehensive place to start.

5. Educate yourself. Educate yourself. Educate – you get the point. Use a Sunday afternoon to analyze your own lifestyle, home, work, school, neighborhood, and plan ways to reduce your environmental footprint, whether by biking instead of driving (you want to get in shape too?), or taking charge of recycling in your household and/or workplace by finding out what can and cannot be recycled (centers get swamped by unusable material). Simple, everyday decisions add up. The nature of the problem is the sheer scale. Dicky C. had a point about recycling being a personal virtue. It’s much more effective when applied on a large scale and he knows that; he found another way of telling the people who disagree with him to go f&#k themselves.

And one last note, to answer the age old question, take paper over plastic (and aluminum cans over plastic). Trees, at least in theory, can regrow.

Open source software for writers, designers and musicians: yes it is free

The last few days I have been glued to a computer screen working with two free, open-source design programs, and I’m so appreciative of the free love, I’m going to spread it. Here are some great free programs that you can trust:

Open Office – Stick it here, Microsoft, all of your expensive Office programs given away must make your employees wonder whether to keep investing their 401ks in company stock.

GIMP – Same for you, Adobe Photoshop. I’ve yet to find anything payware has over the freeware. I can layer, mask, screen, filter, script, add text, edit photos, crop, scale….

Inkscape – Same for you, Illustrator. Vector graphics for flyers, posters, web pages. Manipulate text, color and shape.

Scribus – Same for you, inDesign. I’ll lay out my own book. It’s called Second Coming, currently being edited by yours truly. Soon….

Audacity – Record music, edit sound, mix, sample and much more. Comparable to CakeWalk.

This is a start. I’ve been in this chair ALLLL day preparing artwork for the launch of the new theme. Here we go….

Four Inches (and Counting) – a Short Story about Internet Seduction

Try to imagine what it’s like wading through garbage loads of smut and can’t touch yourself. I mean, what is masturbation? Is it climaxing or a friendly tug? Manual arousal or a dirty daydream? I can’t take any chances. I didn’t have the biggest manhood to begin with; now I have less!

4inches6x9

By J.M. DeBord

Copyright 2009

My dick shrinks every time I masturbate. Don’t laugh, dammit, it’s not funny! I met a strange woman online and now, a little at time, my manhood dwindles, just as she promised it would. Her curse is coming true. God, I knew I shouldn’t do it — masturbate with her on my webcam — but she made me. The witch is wacko, I tell you.

We encountered each other through an Internet search for “free live sex,” but random the encounter was not. The Devil knows all our weaknesses. She knew mine, knew me, despite the seemingly random way we met. Only a fallen angel could possess such power. I strayed and a Succubus found me. Now I’m paying an unbelievable price.

The website is gone, no trace left on my computer or the search engine I used — or on any search engine. I know exactly where to look because I navigated straight to page 66 and clicked on the 6th result. You might say I was asking for trouble from the start, but really I was just messing around, bored — not gambling with my fate. Try to imagine what it’s like wading through garbage loads of smut and you can’t touch yourself. I mean, what is masturbation? Is it climaxing or a friendly tug? Manual arousal or a dirty daydream? I can’t take any chances. I didn’t have the biggest tool to begin with — now I have less!

Her webpage loaded and there the seductress appeared on TV-quality live video. First I saw the bed, queen-size with lavender satin sheets and brass headboard pushed against a wall painted gauzy rose. Then something on the bed stirred among the tall pile of plump pillows. Just a flash of face followed by toned thighs rising in the background. She rolled over and looked at me upside down with big green eyes, face pale white, button-nose above full lips (or from that perspective, below), and wavy auburn hair falling off the bed.

Beguiling.

Gorgeous.

I guessed her accent as Eastern European when she said, “Only you get to see?”

Who, me? I’d viewed enough porn to fill a walk-in closet, but live interaction was completely new. Her voice came through my speakers timbered sultry, accompanied by instrumental music playing in the background that brought to mind Moroccan. Complete spank material.

“That’s all right, if you like it that way. I can do whatever you want,” she cooed.

I typed into the chat box that my webcam was on. I thought nothing of it at the time.

“Sweetie,” she said, “you have to click on the big blue button for two-way.”

I clicked the button and installed some gadget to make my webcam work with hers. A moment later she glanced sideways at her monitor, scanned my face, smiled approvingly, kissed her fingers and placed them on the monitor. I felt a little tingle.

“I see now. You are cute. Your name?”

I typed my usual screen name: Deadeye Dick, the title of a Kurt Vonnegut book I found long ago on the family bookshelves. I’m known for my aim — played varsity basketball in high school. The glory days.

She giggled, undoubtedly missing the joke. “Can I just call you ‘Dickie’?”

I began to type but she stopped me with five words:

“I can hear you, baby.”

“Dickie’s fine,” I spoke toward my mic. Hell, Dickie had a ring to it from her mouth, every syllable hinting of seduction.

“I’d ask you what you are here for, Dickie, but I already know.” She balanced a pointed chin lightly atop her hand, eyes level with the camera, sinewy form blended into the satiny sheets and luxurious pillows. Her perfect little ass waved in the air like a kitty in heat.

“Am I being charged for anything?” I asked, thinking of the possibility of a scam. I damn sure wouldn’t get suckered.

“You have to put in your information and click the other button.”

The quality of the feed impressed me but I saw no banners, links or logos on the webpage, just her boxy room and the two buttons. The domain name had to be at least 30 characters long in a foreign language, and the fill-in box for payment sat empty. “There’s no price,” I noticed.

“Pay whatever you think I’m worth.”

“What if I say it’s worth nothing?” I distinctly remember asking her.

“No one has ever received my adoration and been unsatisfied. I know what my men need.”

She rose to reveal the cleavage of two full milky white breasts barely covered by a lacy, flesh-colored nightie. A shawl made of see-through fabric covered her dainty shoulders. Her neckline looked delicious. Never did I expect to find such a gorgeous woman on a spank site, a combination of everything my eye seeks in the feminine form. Like I said, our encounter was no coincidence.

“Show me what you can do.” I played it cool. “No guarantees, you understand.” Don’t know if I actually said that word-for-word, but I think the terms of our agreement were clear.

“You’ll get what you came for.” She stretched out a long arm to arc her camera over top of the bed so that I looked down at her with a view of her perfect body. I saw a hint of her pink panties. The camera swung fluidly to give me a better view as she asked, “Is this your first time?”

“If you mean like this, yes. I wasn’t really looking for anything in particular when I visited your site. Kind of strange how I found you, actually.”

“A man should always know what he’s looking for, Dickie, that way he knows what to do with it when he gets it. Don’t you agree?” Her demure voice found the soft spots.

“People say I lack direction,” I think I replied.

“And we can agree why you’re here? I bet you’ve seen many pretty girls on the internet who arouse you. No one like me though.”

As I studied her closely I noticed bark-colored flecks spattered in her green eyes. I could almost smell fruit-scented hair conditioner. She seemed genuinely interested in me. I breathed a little harder. “Right again,” I had to admit. I felt like I was talking to a therapist or something, not that I trust those witch doctors.

She moved her camera closer and panned over her slim torso, over her navel and hip bone tattooed with a small, funny symbol, down to her silky pink panties printed with teddy bears, a close-shaved patch of dark pubic hair tantalizingly visible beneath the soft fabric. My weakness is for hot, girly women with teddy bears, and my preference in pubic hair is for a shapely batch over an unruly bush or clean shave. She lowered her voice promisingly. “I can be there with you, from any angle, any position you want me, and together we’ll tell a story. Do you want to do that?”

I didn’t answer.

“Get more comfortable. Take off those pants.”

A moment later I sported boxer shorts and a t-shirt.

“Good. Now sit back and relax. Tell me what excites you.” The camera panned up her luscious torso to her lovely round face. She blew a kiss that tingled inside my trunks.

I wasn’t so sure about what I thought was going to happen. I’d masturbated many times to Internet porn but never paid for it, and certainly not with another person (sort of) present. Crossing a line, it seemed.

I did it anyway, my left hand drifting unconsciously downward. I tried to angle my camera so she couldn’t see me playing with myself and answered, “I like girls. Long legs. Big tits. Blow jobs.”

“Do you like what I’m wearing? I can change for you.”

“I like it, I just–”

“Relax, we’re doing this together, remember? I’m there with you now. Really,” she said, squinting her eyes, “I have a special gift. There’s no such thing as time and space except to the mind fooled by it. Feel my hands on your chest. My soft kiss on your neck.” On screen she mimicked running her hands over my chest, mouth kissing wetly on my neck, my ear.

Just then I felt a whisper of air behind my ear and became leery. I’d heard of power of suggestion but thought myself immune. I wasn’t going to be duped. Little did I know at the time what confronted me.

“Sense how much I want you,” she breathed hotly.

That statement opened an existential can of worms about the nature of attraction best left for another time. Suffice to say I saw through her flattery, as convincing as it was, but participated willingly in the fantasy.

“I had a pedicure today, want to see?” She cocked a leg and lifted a perfectly shaped, ruby-red-painted big toe into view over her firm dancer’s belly, demonstrating flexibility that lifted my boxer shorts with excitement. I imagined the positions I could twist her into as I pounded her box.

My fingertips found the front flap of my shorts and reached inside. Her delicate feet — she knew my weakness. I said the first thing that came to mind:

“You spend a lot of time on your back, don’t you?” I know feet, and hers were soft as a maiden’s in a harem.

“Why Dickie, whatever do you mean by that?” she replied innocently, lean legs hovering in the air. Even though she looked and sounded Eastern European, for a moment I heard all-American south, a big turn-on. I doubt if she could tell that I blushed in the dim light of my room. “You try to be a good boy, don’t you? But you have pointless hangups about your sexuality and how you express it. Sometimes the beast needs fed.”

“What do you mean by that?” I shot back. She had some nerve.

“I think you know.” Her seductive stare into the camera left no doubt.

“Look, I just don’t feel right about it.” But the flag pole in my shorts said otherwise. My finger drifted up and down the soft underside of the shaft, sending pleasing tickles into my bowels.

A hard edge inflected her voice. “Does it sound stranger pleasuring yourself with a partner, or alone? If you’d rather jerk-off to cheerleader pics, you know where to find them.”

When I was a terribly shy and self-conscious 14-year old, my mom caught me “red-handed” playing with myself. And how did she react? Cracked up laughing. For the next few days she lost it every time she looked at me. She apologized but couldn’t keep a straight face, and the longer she laughed, the harder it became to stop. Forever afterward her little grins have looked suspiciously like she’s amusing herself at the memory of catching her only son in the bathroom hammerin’ it to her Victoria’s Secret catalog. Of course, that didn’t dissuade me from masturbating, just created more inner conflict.

“You’re right,” I conceded, “I just have this hangup about, you know, fapping. It has to do with my mom. Don’t ask because I won’t tell you.”

“I can help if you let me.” She leaned forward into the camera, snaky body curling around her. “I know all about your momma. First of all, Dickie, I want to see you — all of you. Will you reposition your camera for me, please? I know you are rock hard. Doesn’t the idea of me watching excite you?” She scratched at the camera lens with a shiny, red, rectangular-tipped fingernail, placed it next to her mouth and slowly licked the pad of her finger with the tip of her wet, pink tongue.

I did as requested.

“Have any lotion?”

“Baby oil.”

“Ooh, even better, I love baby oil. I’ll get mine and you get yours,” she proposed.

The bottle sat within arm’s reach of my desk, of course. She pulled hers from beneath the bed.

“Where are you?” I asked. She could be perched atop a mountain in China for all I knew, though more likely, I thought, in some seedy Prague sex shop. I’d read stories about Russian gangs kidnapping women and selling them as sex slaves.

“I’m right there with you, no matter where in this big world I happen to be. I’m everywhere.” She removed her shawl, leaned back on her elbows, pulled up her nightie and spread baby oil around her navel and over her diaphragm, exposing the bottom of her breasts. Her hand slowly reached down her stomach over the top of her thighs and between them, then back over her public mound, leaving a glistening swatch of oil. She moaned.

“I’m getting wet, Dicky. Turn your hand around. That’s how I’d position mine from in front of you. Like that. Yes.”

My Willy poked through the front flap and reached for the sky, hard enough to pound steel, all five-and-a-quarter glorious inches (the actual male average). Her suggestion for the hand position did the trick, made it feel like someone else was stroking my cock.

She stopped all of a sudden and looked at me like the thought had just spontaneously occurred to her. “Dickie? Where do you want me to put the oil on my body? Think of my hands as yours.”

“I like it when you rub across the top of your panties, then reach down between your legs. Put your fingers inside.”

Her middle and ring fingers pushed across the top edges of the soft pink fabric of her panties, exposing pubic hair. She concentrated, eyes closed, massaging the clitoris in circular motions. Then her fingers inserted all the way inside creating wet pussy sounds. She drew a glistening line from inner thigh to the top of her hip, and pulled aside the crotch of her panties, revealing her innie: no labia showing from the outside. My cock throbbed. I re-positioned my hand for priming and went to town, up and down. She glanced aside at the monitor, at me, pleased.

“Look, Dickie, that’s not oil.” She swung the camera down between her legs and focused on the wet spot in the crotch of her panties, reached inside and sunk her fingers deep into her canal. I saw her quiver, heard an exhale of breath, the little “oh.”

“Can you feel how warm and wet it is in here? Smell your fingers.”

I swore I whiffed clean pussy ever so lightly, and felt a rush. The first notion of a climax rumbled in my prostate, the impending moment of bliss. Release. Oh yes, she had my imagination going! Just a little longer.

She sounded close to orgasm, a hint of pleading in her breathy voice. “Dickie, do something for me when we climax. You trust me, right?” she asked as the tips of her fingers worked her clit round and round.

“Whatever you want,” I said. I didn’t have much concentration for talking.

She quickly positioned the camera for me to see up her body from her hips to her head propped on a pillow like I was about to climb on top for some missionary work. A perfect view of her spread legs for the final scene.

“Sometimes a man has to do something drastic or else he remains undecided, stuck at the boundary of boyhood. Still attached and immature but eager to move on,” she said. “Does that sound like you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I panted over the slapping.

“If you do something so symbolically profane that she might never talk to you again if she knew, you can break free to be your own man. It’ll work. We’ll do it together. Ready baby?”

Her fingers worked furiously beneath her panties, in and out, round and round, as I jacked off. A huge load built. Watch out, the volcano is about to blow! All I had to do was keep my eyes pealed on the pretty picture a moment longer.

“That’s it, Dickie. Oh, you’re good, you know how to please.” She talked faster, urgently. “Feel me massaging your cock, my other hand squeezing your balls. Feel your climax building up and up until you can’t hold it anymore. See my mouth open, waiting….”

I felt her hands fondling me, so real virtual reality doesn’t even come close to describing it. The only sounds in the room were her talking through my speaker and my slapping meat — and that strange instrumental music. I panted, “Almost…there!”

“Me too, Dickie. Now look at me. See her Dickie. See her,” she commanded.

“Who?” The valve beneath my scrotum opened and the inexorable stampede proceeded forth from the gate to spill my seed. I hadn’t thought to bring a towel, no time to take off a sock or grab a stray tissue. Too late.

Her! Cum on me. Cum on her! Come to momma!” She threw her head back, squeezed her eyes shut and howled. Just above her image on my screen, near the outer edge of my new Macbook, the lens of the webcam stared back at me from four feet away. I saw in my mind’s eye a clear image of the face of my mother superimposed over beautiful pink pussy.

I took aim, and fired.

The first spasm fell a little short, a result of crosscurrents of revolt and fascination as I finally understood what the Internet seductress had me do. The second spurt found its mark on the lens, followed by a third, fourth, and fifth glob of flying baby formula splashed across the LED screen, followed by smaller spasms. My balls emptied like never before. Totally spent, I collapsed back in my chair.

Her moans and breathing subsided, face and neck glowing from the rush of climax. Very satisfied. She swung the camera toward her so that I saw up as if lying on her stomach, and for a moment we breathed together.

“Isn’t that better, Dickie? Wasn’t that great?”

I didn’t know what to say, couldn’t believe what had just happened. Couldn’t believe what I opened my eyes to! The second glob of jizz had slid almost all of the way down the screen; another landed by the right hinge on my speaker hole; and two or three spattered across my keyboard like seagull bombs. A gooey, awful mess.

Oh my god, what have I just done?

“Now what was that worth to you?”

She had to be kidding. “You just had me cum on my mother. If I hadn’t been so close to blowing my wad it never would have happened,” I said. “That’s revolting!”

“Now Dickie, try to tell me that you’ve cum like that before?”

“Well, I have.” Once or twice.

“While masturbating?”

“That’s not the point. Look what you’ve made me do!”

“We all make our own choices.”

“But you just had me cum on my mother! You’re sick!”

She cocked her head, a look in her eye like she’d grown disappointed with me. Like all men would eventually disappoint her. “That’s the point. You’re free. Mom is just another woman who happened to birth you. Another hole doing its role. She has no more and no less power over you than that. You’ll never think about her the same way again. Believe me, Dickie, once you give a chick a facial, your relationship is forever changed.”

“That’s crazy talk,” I said. Mom wasn’t some trampy chick.

“She has her little secret, and now you have yours.”

“I’m not paying for this psycho shit.”

“It would take a year of therapy to get what you got today. Not to mention that you had the orgasm of a lifetime. The girl needs her rent money. What’s a good dinner worth to you?”

I couldn’t believe her gall. “The only thing I’m eating is my words,” I declared defiantly.

“You’re going to pay me one way or another.” A shadow of warning hinted on her pretty face.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you don’t pay me what I’m worth, your dick will get smaller every time you masturbate. A little at a time, but it’ll add up. I’m a Gypsy, Dickie, and the women of my family are powerful spell casters. Don’t cross us.”

“I’m not afraid of you. This is blackmail!” Anger took over my revulsion. I had to wipe up the mess before it dried on my $2,000 computer.

“Remember how it felt like I was there with you, reaching out to find you still living in momma’s basement?”

How did she know– “How the hell did you–”

“Do you think my gifts are limited to stroking dicks? Last chance, Deadeye. It’ll get smaller and smaller until you’re grasping at a nub.” She pointed a finger at me and let it go limp.

“Goodbye.” I reached for my jizzed computer touchpad to close her off forever. Her face turned furious, lips pursed and eyes spitting poison, voice venomous. “This is two-way video. I have my copy, how ’bout you?”

I tried to stop but my finger slipped and closed the browser window. I hadn’t thought of her recording me. Shit. I should have just paid. What’s the going rate for long-distance masturbation, 20 or 30 bucks? Bitch probably would’ve taken $10.

The video of my impression of Hand Solo didn’t suddenly appear burning up the charts at a video-sharing site or internet bulletin board during the following few weeks. I prepared a story just in case about how some guy on the internet looks like me and I get confused for him all the time, but the lie went unused. I fapped regularly and went about my merry way.

Until one day I noticed my dwindling pecker while showering. I wasn’t even playing with it. The penis grows and shrinks with temperature and humidity, sometimes just on a whim. So I thought it was nothing to worry about. I hadn’t planned on masturbating, but with nowhere to be, I poured some conditioner in my palm and stuck my dick in the mashed potatoes. (It was that kind of party, if you know what I mean.)

Soon I had my hand wrapped around a decent shower woody. Usually the head and some shaft stick out between my thumb and forefinger, but only the head popped out this time. I brought to mind an ex-girlfriend whose memory never fails to produce a rise and felt the blood flowing healthily. Gripped harder. Tugged. Stroked a few times and squeezed. Still the same length. Never one to waste good wood, I went ahead and finished.

A week later I thought about it again and measured with a ruler: Four-and-a-half inches, best I could muster. I couldn’t believe it, figured I was subconsciously keeping myself from getting fully erect. At that point I knew some curse had been cast on me, but weeks would go by and I’d convince myself it was all a trick of the mind. Mrs. Hand cleaned the pipes and I’d think, ‘My penis isn’t really shrinking. No one has that sort of power. Messing with your head, that’s all it is.’ I stopped masturbating when my dick shrunk to a fraction over four inches.

FOUR FREAKIN’ INCHES!!!

Some men would pay millions for an extra inch-and-a-quarter. I would have gladly handed over the thousand dollars in my bank account for mine back, and would pay a hundred times more if she’d give me an installment plan, but she disappeared into the ether. All I had was a screenname: Adoress. Fuck!

For months I surfed the underside of cyberspace with my hands shackled to the keyboard, afraid to arouse anything below. I could never masturbate again. Can you imagine? Never. Masturbate. Again. I can’t even have a good wet dream because the sight of an attractive female makes me think of Adoress.

One day she responded to an email address I use for bulletin boards and chat room postings. The text of it is pasted here:

Dear Dickie,

I hear you’ve been looking for me. This is for your own good. It’s no longer about money. It’s the insult, and that can’t be repaid.

When will you ever grow up?

You’ve got one way to get your manhood back. Think about every time you pounded wood before realizing I don’t joke. What’s that, 25 times? 50? 100? That’s how many virgins you’re going to have to screw to recover your old glory. One for one. Hymen reconstruction surgeries don’t count, either; a virgin is a virgin. Sorry pal, but you ain’t that good looking, and I doubt if you have the balls to take so much untouched pussy. So get used to what you got (left). 😉

You’ll never hear from me again.

Have a nice life,

-Adoress

PS- Be a good boy and say hello to momma for me.

PSS- Me and a few dozen of my closest friends all just love watching your video. Who knows, someday we might share it with the world. That’s some aim you’ve got, Deadeye!!!

[If you like what you read and want to stay in touch, sign up for my email newsletter. Believe it or not, my main topic to write about is dreams!]

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The Bullzee: Who can talk shit the longest

I propose a challenge, an award and a new Guinness Record all in one. Joining the Emmy, Razzie and the guy who bounced on a pogo stick for a week straight, I believe the world needs a new high water mark. Thinking of hip-waders, we might call this a high BS mark, because the Bullzee will be awarded for the longest continuously spoken stream of complete bull shit. Don’t laugh — this is art!

Like any award or world record, this one has rules. We can modify them on the run. I’m having this brainstorm before walking out the door to the coffee shop — the idea couldn’t wait.

1. No more than a three second pause between words. 3.01 seconds disqualifies the attempt at the time stamp of the last spoken word.

2. Only words spoken in a common, verifiable language — preferez l’Anglais — count. Singing does not. Random sounds are allowed as part of the attempt but do not qualify for the continuous steam. Thus a long “uh” better last no more than three seconds. A continuous stream of cussing does not count either. Words must be strung together in a that makes sense but has no factual basis. So for example, a New Yorker going off about the subway does not count, but a Little Rock resident who has never been to New York ranting about the subway — that’s complete bull shit.

3. Alteration of the audio to extend the time of speaking or sound output through such means as delay repeats or slowing the tempo will disqualify an attempt. However, one exception is a brief use slow motion to emphasize a really funny part. Do so at your own risk, because the judges (whoever the hell they are) will decide whether your shit is cracked up, and if it isn’t, you lose.

4. Audio effects such as phaser, flanger and resonator are acceptable as long as they do not alter the time signature of the audio recording.

5. Reading from any source does not count. Eyeballs will be examined closely if a teleprompter is suspected of being used. Audio sources such as earpieces are not allowed. No help of any kind — not a friend off-camera feeding lines, an obscure comedy routine fed into the ear — no help. The BS stream must be completely off the top of the head. Think of Marshall keeping it real with the homies in Detroit.

6. The spirit of the Bullzee is an award for the street poet, a record dedicated to the guys and gals who do this sort of nonsense every day, whether hanging on a street corner with the boyz or just hanging on a street corner ’cause they live there. However, no racial overtones are expected. Everyone has a little street poet in them. I’d love to see the Ayatollah bust a rap on George junior.

7. This is not a group effort. One person, one attempt.

8. In order to authenticate the attempt, a time stamp with at least tenths of a second, or a running digital clock facing the camera must be used. I’ll think more about that. Time to get some java….

8. And just to be clear: complete bull. Who wants to win the first Bullzee?

I will be making my own attempt later.