>>> Casual Misanthropy
By staff writer JD Rebello
November 16, 2003
I've been rooming with my friend Mark for two months now, and we've had some good times together: playing NHL 2004 while piss drunk, road tripping to Canada and leaving with my shit black and my liver ruined, and sharing that wonderful night where he shaved my neck hair. But of all the good times, there is still one thing he says that I always love to hear: “See you later, man, I'M GOIN OUT.”
I love when he says that. Why? Nothing personal, but with him out of the room I can finally crack down and whack off.
I've been whackin' off now since November of my sophomore year of high school, so we're going on six years of masturbation. Shit, I think I'll buy my dick a cake. Of all the things I do, masturbation is my favorite. I love it with all my heart and all my soul. I love it more than beer, Family Guy and the Patriots winning the Super Bowl—combined.
When I first started beating my Portuguese sausage at the tender age of 15, I used to do it primarily just by thinking—thinking about how badly I wanted to bang bang that chick chick I worked with at the USA Skating Center. Her name was Tarah, she was a goddess. If you're reading this, Tarah, thank you for all the good times and great memories.
Since that time, I now have a high speed internet connection—and you know what that means: broadband porn! WHOO! What an invention. It sickens me that people actually pay for porn, when if you apply yourself you can find it everywhere for free. My endless love for Internet porn has led me to a practical master's degree in computer science. I can Google with the best of them (search: “tittyfuck” “boobs” and “mountain goat”—hey it's a fetish, gimme a break). I can unlock Zip Files faster than I can undo my zipper. I have downloaded Real Player, Quicktime, and something called Hacha, entirely to watch my porn. And I know seven different ways to clear my history so others can't see what hideous, awful things I've been looking at. Let me put it this way, “Pussy Paradise” is not a site devoted to my love for felines.
I'm on a strict three whack-off per day regimen, part of my Whack-ins Diet (see, “Whack-ins” sounds like “Atkins”, how do I not get paid for this?). Now that I've become an old pro at it, I've learned to turn it into a show. I have characters, motifs, even a Greek chorus to move the plot along during downtimes.
Now you might be thinking to yourself, “What a sick bastard, ugh, what a perverse, unholy individual, I'm moving back to Iran!” Listen, killjoy, everyone does it, but I have the balls and gumption to talk about it. Why isn't masturbation an accepted part of society? It's considered more taboo than actual sex. What? Sex involves others, plus the possibility of children. I don't see my hand having morning sickness and weird cravings before it produces a weird hand-child. (Bet you'll never look at “Thing” from the Addams Family the same way ever again.) I don't need to buy prophylactics to keep my hand from getting a disease. I don't even need to do the other inconveniences like buy my hand dinner, talk after we do the nasty, or share my feelings or whatever.
I say we celebrate masturbation as an art form, a way of life. There are people out there having sex with animals, trees, their cousins and sometimes gasp> people of the same sex and/or of different skin color. (Note: blazing satire in previous statement, take notes.) Why can't a little roll in the hay with Rosy Palms be considered a good time, and why must it be looked down upon? Somebody needs to take a stand, a stand for the hand. To paraphrase the brilliant “Brian's Song”: I love masturbation, and I want you to love it too.
Thank you, and may God have mercy on us all.
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