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April 2004

Urinals: A slightly more appealing option than pissing your pants.
tinkle tinkle | Friday, 04.30.04
I've discussed public bathroom etiquette in the past, but seeing as how this is a serious topic that unites us all under a proud banner of waste expulsion, I'd like to tackle the issue once again, if I may. Unfortunately, this update is for men only, or, women that prefer peeing at urinals with their freakish man-made penises. Peeing at a urinal is a gift, an art, and a science, and luckily, I'm a gifted artistic scientist who will do whatever it takes to write the best damned urine update ever written, no matter how many bottles of beer and water it takes.

This man took gold in the 1998 Urinal Olympics.
Here's a scenario for you: you're at the mall, looking for a new messenger bag that doesn't look like a fucking purse. Suddenly -- disaster strikes. Remember that medium diet soda you ordered from the ghetto pizza stand in the food court... the medium diet soda that, after close inspection, turned out to be medium un-diet soda? Well, it's sending a message to your bladder, and that message is "PREPARE FOR RELEASE, SWEET PENIS." As you enter the restroom, you are nearly floored by a barrage of smells that can only be described as a diarrhea sandwich with a side of rotten penis chips. Every urinal is taken... except for one, sandwiched between an overweight trucker with a huge eagle stapled to the back of his jacket, and a 15-year-old mall thug, who is singing something unintelligible. WHAT DO YOU DO, HOTSHOT?

a) pee at the urinal like a real man
b) pee in one of the available stalls like a fucking woman
c) pee your pants and flush them down the toilet like a real American hero
d) wait for three hours until everyone leaves the restroom, then pee like a disgraced human being

Dogs have it easy, because they can pee wherever and whenever they want, and everyone will congratulate the beast with handfuls of pretzels. "Awww, he got scared and went tinkle all over my face... isn't he just adorable?" Humans, on the other hand, require the proper moon alignment, temperature and pH balance to successfully pee in a public place when surrounded by filthy guys touching themselves and hocking gigantic loogies on the floor. And no one wants to look like a douche by standing in front of the urinal without peeing. It looks like you're waiting for a bus, but you just happen to have your penis in your hand. Here, I will give everyone a glimpse into the male psyche when stricken with "urinal stage fright," and I will label the example Example A.

Example A:
OK... and... pee. C'mon. Go. Start peeing. Start. Begin. OK, here it comes and... start. Oh shit, is that guy looking at me? I know how to pee, guy standing next to me. I'm not any less of a man. C'mon. Please? Go. Pee be gone. Is anyone looking? Go. Start. Fuck it, I'm going to the stall.

Taking the trip to the first available stall after a failed urinal experience is like walking the Green Mile of the restroom, only instead of starring Tom Hanks and that huge black dude, it stars ugly guys scratching their flaky testicles and letting out unnecessarily loud sighs of bathroom relief. Be aware that everyone is now looking at you because you just stood in front of the urinal for a good 25 minutes for no reason, and then you pretended to shake imaginary excess urine from the end of your penis, when clearly, no urine was expelled. Also be aware that everyone is judging you and your bathroom performance issues, and they all think your dick is broken. And maybe, deep down, they're right.

So how do you combat this bathroom affliction that's sweeping the niction? You buy a keg of beer and a lawn chair, and you camp out in the local mall's restroom until you're forced use the urinal like a real man. After a few months of endurance training, you'll be whipping your dick out at a variety of public locales and peeing freely. Who knows, maybe you'll become one of those guys who stands really far back from the urinal and invites the world to enjoy a generous helping of penis as it showers the urinal in salty liquid gold. On second thought, please don't become that guy. Please don't stand there peeing with both hands on your hips like you're the Mighty Fucking Thor or some shit because quite frankly, we're unimpressed with your "look ma, no hands" technique. We get it, you have a huge penis... a huge... meaty... oh fuck it, let me see.

Information for Visitors to Los Angeles
notebooks out, shutterbugs! | Wednesday, 04.28.04

Look kids! -thump thump- A raccoon!
FUR IS MURDAR | Tuesday, 04.27.04
You know that feeling of relief you get when you're driving on your way to work or the local library, and you see a critter-sized mass in the middle of the road, and when you get closer you realize that it's actually a discarded box or a bag or a migrant worker's skull instead of fresh roadkill? It must be nice. If Route 280 is any indication of Jersey's wildlife situation, we should all get the hell out of here before raccoons and opossums learn to drive and start running us over with their cars. After you're through wrapping your head around the irony of becoming a deer caught in a deer's headlights, make up a nice will, take yourself out for pancakes, and then blow your fucking brains out of the back of your head because the animals are sick and tired of getting runned over, and it's only a matter of time before they extract their unholy revenge.

No update about roadkill would be complete without a picture of my local diner. If you ate there, you'd understand. (PROTIP: Avoid the Critter Burger.)
I pass the same three rotting critters on my way to work every morning: Moe, Larry and Exposed Organs Steve. I can't determine their species, but they're all the same type of whatever they are. They're too brown to be skunks, they're too big to be opossums, and they're too dead for me to really give a fuck, but I still feel bad for them. I'm forced to assume that they were some type of dinosaur that survived millions of years of evolution and natural disasters, but lasted five minutes on a New Jersey highway. Their deaths were not in vain, however, as I am learning a great deal about the miracles of rigor mortis and their effects on roadkill. For example, I could probably snap Moe and Larry in half like furry toothpicks, but Exposed Organs Steve has a whole slew of other problems, namely the fact that his organs are exposed and attracting highway buzzards. At least, I think they're buzzards. They could be flying bunnies for all I know, my town never had a zoo.

Meteorologists use fancy charts and calculators and voodoo to determine the arrival of warm weather. Sexy webmasters such as myself use the skunk technique, which you can perform at home with the following tools: a dead skunk and a sense of smell. Walk outside your house. If the smell of skunk piss makes it difficult for you to live, Spring is here. During warm months, skunks flock to my house like no other animal, and they love to get hit by cars and coat the street in piss. I can't pass judgment on the little stinky fellows, because the odds are pretty high that if I got hit by a car, I'd coat the street in piss as well, among other things. Poor skunks. There's nothing worse than seeing a skunk's hide completely flattened except for its tail, swaying gently in the breeze as if I to say, "Hi folks, it sucks that I've become one with the pavement, but please, enjoy my stench for the rest of the afternoon."

Luckily, I've yet to kill an animal while behind the wheel. Oh, I've killed my share of clergymen and trick-or-treaters, but the animal kingdom remains safely unscathed thanks to my Mario Andretti-like driving skills. Maybe I was inspired by my next door neighbor, a deer hunter, who would come home with beautiful critters strapped to the roof of his car, bleeding from every orifice. Maybe I secretly believe in reincarnation, and I fear that the raccoon I just ran over was once Benjamin Harrison, our 23rd president, and the first president to bask in the wonders of electricity in the White House. Or maybe I just don't want to clean brains and fur from my grill piece. Regardless of my reasoning, small woodland creatures are safe to frolic about the street when I'm behind the wheel, because I'll gladly wave to them and blow them kisses and avoid crushing their skulls with my 6 cylinder instrument of death.

Leave your daughter at home day.
MENTALSHED update | Thursday, 04.22.04
Every couple weeks or so, I write updates for another site, mentalshed.com. It's kind of like writing for Playboy magazine, except there's way more nudity, and some people actually read the articles. That being said, it's not work or school safe, so check it out when you get home. The Mentalshed is run by my e-brother and e/n confidant Chuk, and he gives me a venue to write about naughty topics that I'd usually avoid on tmh, like abducting small children and selling them into slavery. So please, enjoy the teaser paragraph from my newest Mentalshed update below, wait for your kids to leave the room, then click the link to catch the exciting conclusion!

Leave your daughter at home day.

I never quite understood the "take your daughter to work day" thing, but that's not surprising because I don't understand a lot of things. I'd say my inability to comprehend "take your daughter to work day" is right up there with my inability to comprehend military time, self-cleaning ovens and two column addition. And yet, other people seem to find the value in waking up their daughters at the crack of dawn, pouring a cup of coffee down their throats and strapping them in for a WILD RIDE OF OFFICE-THEMED ADVENTURE. Unless you work in a Barbie factory or you're Britney Spears' hairstylist, chances are your daughter would rather go to school than watch your boring ass work. Thankfully, I don't have a daughter, or else she'd be subjected to this...

read the rest (click "front page") // peep the archives

It's late and I can't think of a title but this is about my thrilling office life.
now updated weekly | Thursday, 04.22.04
The polls are in and here are the results: the people love my zany office antics. Also, the polls indicate that I am the sexiest man alive, and the worst name for a dog born in the eastern hemisphere is "Mr. Dildo." I'm not sure where you people are actually casting your votes, but please keep it up and nominate me for other fictitious titles that I can put on my resume such as "Best Conductor of Electricity" and "Most Likely to Eat Food that Rhymes with Basagna for Dinner."

Please enjoy this completely unrelated photograph taken from a pivotal scene from Jeff Goldblum's masterwork, The Fly.
So, since it is in my contract to "give the folks what they want and yet still add my own special blend of herbs and spices," I present to you more office fucking insanity and I'm having a horrible fucking day at work but oh fucking wait, typing the word "fucking" makes me feel a little fucking better oh wait now it's just fucking stupid. Right now we're going through a period known around these parts as "rollout." I find it impossible to work through the "rollout" period without hearing Ludacris' voice in my head proclaiming: "I got my twin glock .40's (ROLLOUT), cocked back (ROLLOUT)." I'm actually a very good rapper in my head, but when the words leave my mouth it becomes very apparent that I flow like your mom on menopause, know what I'm sayin? So yeah, rollout. It means that a new product is going to be "rolled out" soon, so every night I get to come home after a hard day of work, get dangerously intoxicated and kick Mr. Dildo in his cute wittle puppy dog face. Seriously, if ever I needed a reason to start destroying my life through narcotics and blunt instruments to the head, "rollout" would be my reason of choice.

Firefighters, coal miners, brain surgeons... you all tremble before the unstoppable fury of rollout. "Ooh, I save flaming children from burning buildings and extinguish their skin with my big phallic hose..." Whoop-de-shit. Do you know how many .PDF's I had to rename today? I'll give you a hint: the answer is 43. And it's not like on a Mac where you can just hit enter to change a filename. No, I have to right click on all the stupid icons and select "Rename" and type the new file name. In French. 43 times. Stupid French-Canadian fucks with their desire to understand payroll software through 7,000-page .PDF documents. Then I have to drop them on some server and offer a sacrificial floppy disk to the Lunix gods in exchange for a slim possibility that I actually left the files on the right server, none of which I have access to.

"Duh I'm a stupid coal miner and I break my back every day just so have enough coal on your plates for dinner." Please coal miner. OK? Just please. Sure, you beat the ground with a large pick axe, but have you tried sitting in front of a computer for 8 and a half hours every day of your godforsaken life? I think I'm developing my own flavor of scoliosis in my back, arms and hair. My left pinky is constantly asleep from a lack of blood circulation and possibly early signs of carpel tunnel. The only way to wake it is by slamming it in a refrigerator door or threatening it with a nutcracker.

Don't even get me started on brain surgeons, because in the end, how much damage can a brain surgeon really do? Can a brain surgeon hold up the rollout production schedule because he accidentally removed every instance of the word "and" from every .PDF on the network? I don't think so. It's not as easy as it sounds. First, I have to program a malicious virus that seeks out and destroys conjunctions. This step alone can usually take weeks, if not years. I don't think a brain surgeon could tackle this bizarre, yet surprisingly necessary task. I think brain surgeons can just remove chunks of your skull meat and place the chunks in tiny jars and whip them at passing cars on the highway. At least, that's what the hobo who said he was a brain surgeon did after he performed surgery on me. No bones about it, that was probably the worst $1.50 I ever spent.

So, even though I wrote this update about 4 months ago, and rollout has come and gone, feel sorry for me, because my job is like, sooooo hard and it makes me cranky and wet sometimes. Well, maybe not cranky, more like punchy. Maybe grouchy. But definitely wet. Whoo boy, can I wet a pair.

I deal with the god damn customers so the engineers don't have to!
What the hell is wrong with you people?! | Thursday, 04.15.04
I'm getting a new cubicle in a new building next week, and you'd think I hit the fucking lottery. Right now I dwell in what's known as a "half cubicle." It has lower walls than everyone else, and it gives random people the privilege of watching me pretend to scratch my nose when in reality I'm digging something awful out of it. But now... oh man. I can finally live the dream and sit at my desk sans pants. Unfortunately, my elderly secretary Ruth will not be joining me, since I had her fired about a month ago for bringing me a Diet Coke when I specifically asked for a Diet Coke. It's good to keep the elderly on their toes, because no one cares about them anymore, and it's fun. Poor Ruth.

The new cubicle is so spacious that I think I may rent out half of it and turn my place of employment into a hilarious sitcom, complete with shenanigans, hijinx and a talking gorilla. See the premise of the sitcom is this: I'm really neat and tidy, and my cubicle-mate is a gorilla named Troy, and we have all sorts of wacky adventures, including an episode where we split the cubicle in half with a huge piece of tape and I scream, "DAMMIT TROY, THIS IS MY SIDE OF THE CUBICLE, SO GET YOUR STINKIN' PAWS OFF IT YOU DAMN DIRTY APE!" Critics are saying, "The John Lacki Cubicle Gorilla Adventure Hour is the best cubicle-based-gorilla-adventure-sitcom since the Drew Carey show. Wait, Drew Carey was a gorilla, right? Oh shit, he was a real person? Wow, I'm a laughably horrible critic." Catch it this summer wherever fine imaginary television programs are sold.

I need some hilarous signs to hang in my new cubicle, such as a picture of Garfield with the caption "I love lasagna!" or some Nazi propaganda. Nothing says "Pull up a seat" better than a picture of Hitler holding Jesus' hand, walking through a field of burning ethnic children. But above all else, my cubicle needs, and I mean needs a Fry Daddy Jr.

Boss: Hey John, did you finish up that installation doc, yet?
John: Y'know, I was working on it all week, and then I accidentally dipped it in beer batter and fried it and ate it. I don't know how this happened.
Boss: Were you working over the Fry Daddy Jr. again?
John: It's a strong possability.
Boss: Dammit, Lacki! What did I tell you about working over the Fry Daddy Jr.?
John: Um, that I should always work over the Fry Daddy Jr.?
Boss: That's right. Now clean these potatoes and I want them fried to perfection and delicious and on my desk by 5:00 pm or you can kiss that dream of one day owning a Fry Daddy Sr. goodbye!

So it looks like I'll have to say goodbye to my old half cubicle and chair. We shared a lot of memories, this desk, chair and I. Hey chair, remember that time I spilled a spoonful of vanilla yogurt on you, and it looked like I ejaculated all over the place? And desk, who could forget the time I spilled vanilla yogurt on you, and once again, looked like I ejaculated all over the place. I'll... (sniff sniff) never forget you guys (sniff sniff), especially when... (sniff sniff) I ejaculate all over the place... OH GOD EXCUSE ME...

Makes BILLIONS of dollars while sitting around in your underpants!!!!!!
Read this update to find out how! | Tuesday, 04.13.04
Have you guys ever heard of MLM? Like anything else in life that hides behind a three letter acronym, MLM's cannot be trusted. MLM stands for Multi Level Marketing, and it employs thousands upon thousands of elderly hipsters as well as morbidly obese ridicule-magnets who are afraid to leave the house and get a real job. If you read an ad in the paper for a job that required no work, no training, no qualifications and promised to pay you seven billion dollars a day, you'd, at the very least, turn the page and look for a real job, right? Maybe you'd tear the page out of the paper, crinkle it up into a ball, toss it in the blender with some milk and strawberries and whip up an MLM Smoothie... I just hope you like the great taste of LIES. But, while you're sipping your fruity beverage, some chucklefuck with a sixth grade education is salivating at the thought of making tons of money without doing any work thanks to the latest and greatest MLM scam.

Nothing says financial success like a warehouse full of these fucking things. Behold... Evergreens in Enviro-Tubes®.
Here's how MLM's work: you hand your money to a stranger who promises you wealth beyond your wildest dreams, and then he rapes you in the ass. It's just like a real job, except you never receive a paycheck, and instead of taking a lunch break, you get raped in the ass. To be honest, I have no idea how MLM's work, but I know that they don't, and I know I had to deal with the victims on the phone when they were pouting and blubbering about "not having enough money to live anymore." Between my senior year of high school and my sophomore year of college, I was a webmaster for an MLM company that promised old people "wealth beyond their wildest dreams" and "small ferns jammed into clear tubes." Seriously, that was our hook... we sold trees in tubes. Well, we didn't really sell them in the normal sense of the word... we sold them to your sorry ass so that you could sell them or give them away or beat yourself about the head with them because you actually thought buying 17,000 trees in tubes was a wise business investment. It's a great idea on paper... actually, no it isn't. It's a retarded idea on paper, it's a retarded idea written in icing on Fudgie the Whale, it's a retarded idea no matter how delicious the canvas.

Even if you, the potential scam victim, somehow allowed yourself to become convinced that a FedEx box full of our "Evergreens in Enviro-Tubes" was a legitimate money-making instrument, it wouldn't matter, because the trees were almost always delivered D.O.A. Amazingly enough, a clear plastic tube doesn't supply all the essential ingredients that a baby tree requires, namely dirt and water. The only ingredient that a plastic tube supplies is plastic. But hey, I was no treeologist, I was just the lowly webmaster that was paid $8 an hour to assure the mouth-breather on the other end of the phone that he would be receiving a fresh batch of dead trees by the end of the week, or his money back*! Please be aware that I'm using the term "tree" loosely, here... it was actually a stick. With a few yellow prickley things on it. In a tube. That you could very easily shove up your ass with the proper motivation, and here's the proper motivation: YOU JUST BUILT AN ADDITION ON THE HOUSE TO STORE ALL YOUR TREES IN TUBES, AND YOU'RE BROKE NOW.

Although the dead trees in the dead tubes took the MLM world by storm, we also sold "leads," which is a nice way of saying that we sold your name, address and email to thousands of "entrepreneurs" who would SPAM the living fuck out of you while we laughed at you and swam around in giant piles of money and tubes. We received SPAM warnings from Earthlink constantly, as well as angry phone calls from pissed off entrepreneurs who realized that the majority of their HOT xXx TEEN LOLITAS WHO LOVE CUM spam messages were bouncing back because our "fail proof leads" included email addresses from 1965, when the internet was contained in a single loose-leaf notebook.

I'm looking at all this, and I'm beginning to realize that I didn't work for an MLM company at all. I think I just worked for some insane guy with a surplus of sticks and tubes and an office full of broken equipment. And yet, I still like to think I did my part to bring an evil MLM corporation to its knees: one night, I freed all the trees from their tubes so that they could spread across the land and pump out oxygen like a bunch of motherfuckers. Photosynthesize, my green friends. Photosynthesize.

(* Offer not valid on trees in tubes.)

No Virginia, I'm pretty sure there's no Easter Bunny, either.
hoppy easter inter-friends! | Friday, 04.09.04
Sorry for the lack of updates, inter-friends. I've been too busy going on Easter egg hunts at the local Shop-Rite. The Easter Bunny is getting sloppy in his old age, as I found an aisle FULL of eggs, shabbily "hidden" in cartons that were clearly labeled "EGGS." It's time for a new Easter mascot; we successfully replaced that dreary carpenter with a happy bunny, but neither of them have shit on Santa Claus, the mack daddy of holiday commercialism. The man watches you in your sleep... what the fuck does the Easter Bunny do? Leave small poo pellets all over the living room rug? Regardless of the holiday, there's nothing magical about cleaning up poo. Y'know, my true calling in life was writing heartwarming greeting cards. Here's my latest idea: the front would have a picture of a bunny doing something adorable, and the inside would read "Regardless of the holiday, there's nothing magical about cleaning up poo. Have a HOPPY Easter." Are you there Hallmark? It's me, Lacki. Sure, I'll hold.

I can't tell you how glad I am to live in a country that allows people to find this sexually stimulating.
Easter just isn't a very fun holiday. The only thing it has going for it is ham, and I'm not even sure that ham is a nationally recognized Easter treat. I just like ham, and you can't take that away from me. Oh sure, some have tried to take ham away from me, but the only thing they gained besides a plate of ham was a knuckle sandwich with a side of "give me back my fucking ham, pork thief!" I hope you're enjoying this... you're witnessing the worst holiday update in thismayhurt history. I'm only two paragraphs in and I've already made a reference to poo, ham and dairy products. Three of my strongest subjects... gone. Let's see if I can turn 'er around in this next paragraph, that will begin after I press the 'enter' key twice.

I hope all you school-going young'uns enjoyed your day off this Good Friday. While you were eating your bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch for your 12:30 pm breakfast, I was standing outside on my lunch break, watching a Canadian goose honk at people that stood too close to it. Did you know that female Canadian geese are very protective of their eggs? Crazy world, man. Maybe nesting right next to the fucking ash tray wasn't the smartest idea... stupid goose. Meanwhile, there's a male goose protecting his woman, walking around and honking at everyone like he owns the fucking place. Well, I checked the records, and it turns out that he does own the fucking place, so I just got out of his way. You don't question a goose that owns a multi-billion dollar payroll software company... even if he's Canadian.

In a completely unrelated turn of events, Rachel and I booked a trip to Vegas yesterday, and I've decided to win a couple million dollars during our week-long stay. Sorry Jersey, we love you and everything, but first week in June we're leaving your grimy ass for... another grimy ass with prettier lighting. But can you bury a dead hooker in the desert in Kearny? Sure you can (once you find the desert), but not only is it perfectly legal in Vegas, it's downright encouraged. I plan on abusing this legal loophole nightly... I'm like the David Copperfield of dead hooker magic.

This update is 99.98 with a line over it% effective against pregnancy.
condomania | Friday, 04.02.04
We started to slowdance, I said, "No chance for romance if I have to wear condoms 'cause they feel like snowpants."
-- M.C. Paul Barman

Let's face it, condoms aren't for cool people. It's doubtful that the Fonz ever used a condom during one of his many encounters in the dumpster behind Arnold's, but if he did, chances are even he would look like a herb trying to rip the tiny packet open. I mean, it's not like opening a bag of Doritos... unless it was an individually wrapped Dorito dipped in a zesty spermicidal lubricant... and that would just be weird. And yet, we still use condoms because we love our genitals and we don't like having rotting fruit and vegetables tossed at us during our monthly trip to the abortion clinic. Also, there are a lot of dirty-assed bitches out there that wipe from back to front, and they hand out STD's like those guys at the Chinese restaurant in the food court hand out free samples of pork. Condoms protect our wangs from filthy danger... or do they?

That tiny bit of print on a condom packet is at the center of a raging debate now that President George W. Bush has asked the Food and Drug Administration to modify the current warning to include information about human papillomavirus, commonly called HPV or genital warts.

"The lack of information getting to the American public regarding this disease is beyond comprehension," said Linda Klepacki, manager of the abstinence policy department at Focus on the Family, a Colorado-based organization. She and others point to research showing that condoms don't necessarily prevent the spread of HPV, in part because it may be found on parts of the body the latex devices don't cover. Abstinence is the best way to prevent the disease, she argues.
-- My Way News

"No, not fucking dirty bitches is the most effective weapon against the spread of HPV," Lacki retorts. So basically, pro-abstinence groups want to remind you, Joe Condomface, that sure, your condom may prevent some diseases, and your girlfriend might not get that pregnant, but it would be supercool if you and your ladyfriend just hold hands and knit sweaters instead of rubbing your shameful genitals together. That's great advice for sexless, ugly fatties, but the rest of us are smart enough to realize that condoms won't burn all the alien facehugger eggs that live in dank, crusty vaginas, but it's better than nothing, and it's more fun than abstinance. Tom Broker gets this, and he's not just the president of the International Papillomavirus Society, he's also a member. Huh huh, I said "member."

"I want to be polite. But it appalls me when I see scientific and medical studies being manipulated for a different agenda," said Tom Broker.

The focus, Broker said, should be on the fact that condoms have been shown to reduce the risk of cervical cancer, which is caused by HPV and which can be detected and treated if women get regular PAP smears... Broker also said research has shown that HPV transmission is less likely when a person does not have other STDs, such as HIV, gonorrhea and chlamydia, which condoms have been shown to combat.
-- My Way News

Exciting alternative to making sex.
See? And this is coming from the president of a genital wart foundation. Even he wants you to have filthy sex. I think it's hard enough trying to sell people on the benefits of condoms, unless of course they released an Atkins condom that was made of bacon and had a low carb count. Now, a kid will whip out his condom packet while he's on the can and notice that, according to the label, this stupid penis choker isn't really protecting him from anything, even though it is, and the label is full of lies. And then this will happen...

Girl: Please use my crotch for sexual stimulation.
Boy: Allright, let's begin.
Girl: Wait, aren't you going to use a condom?
Boy: No, the packet specifically states that condoms are for stupid losers, and it won't protect me from your loin germs.
Girl: Oh, ok. (15 seconds later) That was amazing sex.
Boy: Yes it was. Oh shit, now I have herpes and you're pregnant. Thank you condom packet!

Kids, if your girlfriend's panties are full of critters and you want to make sex with her, ignore our retarded president and wear a condom. Understand that, like with anything in life that's somewhat interesting, there are some risks involved, but many of those risks will go away with the proper doctor perscribed ointment. Oh, and prayer. Hours upon hours of prayer, you filthy condom-wearing heathen. Now join hands, and repeat after me: "Our father, who art in heaven..."



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