Written with the help of my friend Nathan Heller

I’m not talking about fucking your girlfriend on the rag, you limpdick motherfucker. If you want to know more about that, read “How to Get Your Redwings, In Good Taste.” Plug. Plug. Plug.

This week’s article hits home for any man capable of producing and maintaining an erection. I hope that’s most of you. Also, for your own goddamned sake, I petition that you realize that both of these processes are completely necessary in the human reproductive cycle.

It’s the circle of life, motherfuckers. It “moves” us all.

Erections vs. Periods

“At least you broads know that shit is going to flood the banks once a month and then go away.”

Women are constantly complaining about how difficult it is just to be a woman. Yeah, you shave you legs. Yeah, you gotta wear make-up (not that you don’t bitch like fucking crazy about that, though). Yeah, you’ve got to expunge a cotton cylinder soaked in your own life force once a month. And yeah, granted, blowing blood out of your cooch is a pretty disgusting habit—and if you can stop doing that, by all means, make the world (including those asexual bathrooms in malls) a much less fetid place and stop yourself up… please.

What you women generally don’t understand is that it is much more difficult to possess a part of the body that enlarges into public view randomly, in the middle of day-to-day situations, than it is to have an ax-wound. And unlike the menstrual cycle, erections are not societally-accepted.

Take these generic conversations, for instance:

Barbie: GOD, I’M SO BLOATED, GIRL.
Teniqua: YEAH GIRL ME TOO!
Barbie: I NEED A BAR OF CHOCOLATE.
Teniqua: I NEED A WARM COCK.
Everybody else: Awwwwwwwwww… you poor, weak doe. What can we do to cater to your fickle, estrogen-driven needs???!!!!

Versus:

Jim: GOD… I’m…so…bloated….. in the pants.
Everybody else:
Jim: I… need… my cock… sucked.
Everybody else: YOU GROSS MOTHERFUCKER.

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Yeah, you get the point. If you walk down the street and see these two things: a girl with a sweatshirt sloppily tied around her waste and a guy with a massive boner, you’re more likely to not call the fucking cops on the girl. We all know that she’s hiding the big red oil spot on her camel toe just as well as we know that that guy probably just got a glimpse of some MILF breastfeeding her baby girl. Given, lesbians are hot… no matter how old ;).


So you’re still not convinced?

Well then asshole, take my experience in 9th grade.

As many of you know, I went to a Catholic school. Before I was the hardass writer that you know and love, I was a devout participant in our school’s Wednesday Mass. Well, as fate would have it, I was kneeling on a pew behind a girl named Mary Margaret, when her Sunday skirt rode up and caught on the seat in front of me, revealing her soft… pink… satin… boyshortish… smooth… clinging… wet… Catholic-boy-desecrating… panties.

Sorry, I need a cigarette; I’ll be right back.

Okay… whew. So then, I got a raging erection. Not a normal erection. The kind that tents out the front of your dress slacks. A Nick Gaudio, if you will. The kind that pokes out eyes and makes Catholic priests’ mouths water. (I still swear that wasn’t Holy Water he was spraying on the congregation.)

Many of you may not be familiar with Catholic services, but essentially, when you’re done kneeling at this point in the mass, you immediately rise and follow your pew-mates in an orderly fashion up the middle of the sacristy to receive Communion from the priest. At this point, it also entails not jabbing Michael O’Donnel in the kidneys with your engorged phallus.

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This is all done in front of the entirety of your peers, in order to facilitate the idea of “community.” Think of it as a holy game of “limp biscuit”…yet, in the end, nobody wins—not that the prize is that great anyway.

Alas, before me, nobody has ever thought that his social life would be destroyed by a sip of wine and a small Styrofoam wafer. But, that’s exactly what happened. I rose as I was risen. Like Jesus, it felt like three days had passed before I made it to the priest. But, unlike Jesus, nobody was kneeling, weeping at my feet—though I would’ve promised eternal life for anybody in that position. I would’ve taken a few nails to the hands, if you catch my drift =D.

Alright, enough Jesus talk. I’m losing my boner.

Essentially, this whole experience ended with a lot of crying and a 15-minute trip to the confessional box. I offered fourteen Hail Marys, ten Our Fathers, and one Beaten Bishop (the sexton still doesn’t know why Father O’Reilly offered to clean the floor without a mop).

And that’s it.

What it boils down to is that women have to quit bitching about periods. At least you broads know that shit is going to flood the banks once a month and then go away. We men, on the other hand, have unfortunate occurrences—completely unexpected circumstances—like eating that fucking biscuit or, luckily in my case, impressing a slew of undersexed Catholic school girls.

From morning tents to pubescent Advents, we consider our erections homage to our masculinity. If only you fucking cunts would give us a little credit and suck a little dick randomly, perhaps your incessant nagging about ragging will be more tolerated.

Come to think of it, putting you women in tents for a week isn’t that bad of an idea. Go ahead and read Leviticus:15.

(Fuck Catholics.)

The end.

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