>>> Casual Misanthropy
By staff writer JD Rebello
February 19, 2006

I masturbate. A lot.

And even though I’ve been laying down the lumber since I was 14, I still have a hard time maintaining my practices in modern society. For whatever reason, you can fart all over the place, but if you decide to whip out Old Yeller and go for a shotgun exhibition (alright, fuck it, I’ll just say masturbating—I’m just plain abysmal at similes anyway), you get a round of stink-eyes.

Therefore, below is a guide to practicing Hindu worship with your Ganesha anywhere and everywhere. You’re welcome.

I. In the Dorm

Section 1 – No Roommate

Step 1: Always have a backup site on call in the event your roommate comes barging in to tell you about his last-place fantasy baseball team and how pissed he is nobody will trade with him.

Step 2: Know the schedule. In fact, this should be step 1, but I’m way too lazy to cut and paste. Know when they’re gone and if they have a propensity for skipping class. Timing is everything.

Section 2 – With a Roommate

“If you wank to your mom’s Victoria's Secret, and then she goes on to read it, according to existentialists, you’ve bagged your mom.”

Step 1: Wait until your roommate falls asleep. I don’t care how ballsy you think you are, dropping yourself like you’re hot with a roommate awake in the immediate area is somewhere on the Bad Ideas scale alongside “Going hunting with Dick
Cheney.”

Step 2: Position your computer so the monitor doesn’t face your sleeping roommate. Claim you want more of an office setup. Buy a three-hole punch to complete the effect.

Step 3: Put a blanket over you to disguise your movement. Claim you’re cold. This doesn’t work as well in the summer or if you’re not a giant blubbering pussbag.

II. In the Workplace

Step 1: Find a private bathroom, preferably not your boss’s. I can’t stress this enough. They don’t take it well.

Step 2: Try to find a bathroom where the stalls are taller than you. This way you can stand. Maybe I’m weird, but I hate sitting down when I whack off. And yet I sit down to take a piss. Isaac Newton would be outright fascinated by me.

Step 3: If another employee enters the facility, keep perfectly still, but stay focused. It may become necessary to abort. The problem is, for whatever reason, people at my work take the loudest, nastiest shits I’ve ever heard. It sounds like someone trying to drown a walrus in a bowl of chili. And the smell, my God, the smell. Like Jerome Bettis’ taint must smell. I have a really hard time staying focused in the midst of that.

III. In Church

Umm. I don’t think Jesus would approve. Let’s just move on.

IV. During Class

This is a tricky time because you always have that nagging feeling that if you go to the bathroom for an extended period of time, the professor is sitting around telling the students: “So what do you think he’s doing in there? You think there’s blood?”

Step 1: Preparation. Class is a perfect time to set up camp, especially on those final days of February when it’s deceptively warm and all the girls go flying into mini-skirts (I call these days Titty Gras). So yes, pick out a couple of ladies, and set up shop.

Step 2: Treat your fantasies like you’re watching Olympic curling on TiVo. You don’t watch all the pre-game or Canadian Bob explaining how two doubloons equal a gunny sack and that’s why Poland’s never lost on the international level. (Actually, I love curling. But that’s another column.)

When you get to the bathroom, go right to the climax. The moose giving out a good yell. The downstairs neighbor with the club foot trembling as you feed the fish. The girl moaning as you ram it into the UPS box. (Yeah, UPS box is my slang term for butt. Because, you know, what can brown do for you? Hey, you asked.) In my fantasies, it’s the girl chuckling over my latest slew of ethnic stereotypes and potty humor. Let me tell you, Casual Misanthropy is one mother of an aphrodisiac.

Step 3: Return to class, and here’s the key: have your cell phone in hand. Now, anyone interested in how you needed fourteen minutes to take a piss can think you were on the phone with your dear baby sister in the lupus clinic. (Off topic, anyone hear about J. Dilla dying of lupus? Question, what the hell is a J. Dilla? Are they making up rappers now? Can I finally start referring to myself as Rebel One without getting the old “dumbass white boy” look?)

V. At Home

Here’s what’s remarkable: When I was in high school, I could rub one out in every room of my house like a thief in the night. Now that I’ve been in college for awhile, I don’t know what it is. Pots and pans are banging. My dog’s barking. The stairs are creaking. I’m making more noise than an all-black The View.

Step 1: Don’t jack in your parents/siblings room. That’s just not right.

Step 2: Don’t be afraid to raid your mom’s Victoria’s Secret collection. Just do us all a favor and throw it out when you’re done. Honestly, if you wank to your mom’s catalog, and then she goes on to read it, according to existentialists, you’ve bagged your mom. Do you really want that on your conscience? And what if she bought something from said catalogue? Oh my goodness, let’s just move on.

Step 3: Always do it in the bathroom. Easier said than done, I’m hearing from those unfortunate saps with sisters. Trust me. It’s worth it. My mom will go into any room she wants without knocking. I could have a Do Not Disturb sign and monkey’s blood on my door and she’d kick it in like a SWAT leader. But for whatever reason, she grants me amnesty in the bathroom. Maybe it’s because she lives with three males and we’ve decorated the basin of the toilet with more atrocities than an Iraqi insurgent’s bachelor party.

We’re getting to the point where you’re never going to read me again, aren’t we?

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