Quotes:
A BJ, and I capitalize the word because it deserves at least that much respect, was like eating breakfast—I would always have it unless I was too tired from the night before.
God is just like any other father: present when things are going well, and absent when things are shitty.
I’m responsible; I pull out.
Every time I start to feel drowsy, I pop another Xany and take another swig of gin.
And this is how you Tangueray.
Hiccups are just God’s way of telling us to shut the fuck up.
Women’s bodies are their property and I frequently practice eminent domain.
I like my women the same way I like my Scotch: thirteen years old and mixed up with a lot of coke.
I put the anal in analogy.
Girls can fake an orgasm for the sake of a relationship, but guys can fake a relationship for the sake of an orgasm.
If two people stay in a shitty relationship, it's probably because one of them gave the other one an STD.
Your breath smells like dick cheese.
Yeah, I talk down to people...but it's only when I'm coppin' a beej.
And we are nothing more than dominant pawns.
My bed is where innocence goes to die.
Jesus saves! But Moses invests!
I spend more time looking for the right porn than the right woman.
"A handjob is nothing more than a gateway drug, just something to elevate your heart rate a little till you find something better!"
-"I’m just saying that, when your sex life consists of your own hand and a bottle of Jergens, a handjob is like going from weed to crystal meth."
"You don’t think I watch porn? I’ve been runklin' to porn since AOL 3.0 came out. I find it hardly erotic to sit around for thirty minutes, dick in hand, waiting to jack off to some chick being penetrated by a pogo stick."
"Why don't you like women?"
-"Because they have a big gaping hole where a dick should be."
Ononism is a beauty that has yet to be appreciated.
Life is like a good shit, painful when it’s happening, but a huge relief when it’s over.
God is but a filthy pigeon, shitting on anything that moves.
And God powders his nose every time life gets bland.
Our shadows are giants...but quail behind our designs like shy children.
Humans are inherently and passionately masochistic. It's only through social interaction that this concept of sadism is precipitated.
I am a food chain—cruel and beautiful all at the same time.
The friction between us causes friction between us.
I live the life of an undertaker; I spend my days banking on other people's misery.
As long as she isn’t packing, I’ll be snacking.
This tiny speck of shit at the very center of my vision will never decompose; the glory of the world will always be a fact (remark) of fiction. The world will always be shit.
I would tell Atlas to throw in the towel.
When people finally believe that pain is all that exists they stop searching for a definitive, absolute truth. They are content with a world of shit, but it is at this impregnable moment that the tiny speck of shit huddling at the very center of your vision decomposes, and truth is all that you see—that glory of the world becomes constancy.
When I finally find a girl with whom no other female can compete, I realize that I now have to vie with the rest of the male population for her heart.
We’re all just vagabonds, out on the streets, begging for change. But we really need to just get off our fat, lazy, pathetic asses and instigate.
We no longer live, but exist. We no longer die, but expire.
And she laughs again and then covers her mouth as she sips the eager saliva back down her throat.
She’s a swallower.
"Alright, everyone relax. I'm not in any legal trouble. You are completely exempt from the law if you shout fatality after you kill someone. It's in the Articles."
This overweight Carney Wilson. This five-foot stack of shit. This gravy bleeding cuntrag. This unpleasantly plump spawn of a whale. I was staring her right in the face, but it appeared as if she had been looking at me from behind a stack of pancakes.
Life is like the reruns of a shitty sitcom
The high was kicking in…that intense rush of whatever.
I like my women the same way I like my Scotch: twelve years old and mixed up with a lot of coke. I know I deserve to be hanged for such comments: who puts coke in a twelve-year-old Scotch?
But Lord is still a four letter word.
And my life is defined by the fluidity of my undulatory tongue.
And my life is defined by how fast I breathe.
And God is not my friend...he's just someone sleeping over.
There is a fine line between love and lust.
And women are like cigarettes, the first time you use them you cannot stand the taste it (the using them) leaves behind, but use them enough and it becomes the only thing your palate desires.
And my pride is a morphine tower I am forced to take with me everywhere.
Saying there is life after death is like saying there is a Hell after Heaven. There is so much beauty in dying.
In my formative years, I had conceived the idea of becoming God, or like God, or like a pillar that kept the weightless immensity of the skies from falling upon the impotent masses. But it is only now that I have finally grappled with the fact that I am more likely to become a stain than a saint.
Life is just one big magnifying glass. And the sun watches us, and when he's tired of our existence, he shines his rays, his white light upon our souls. And the flames consume us till we're nothing more than a rotting carcass buried between cracks in the ground.
Is it God that chokes the hopeful throat to a celestial place, profound? Or does Mother Nature write the note to an apathetic ground?
Truth is: no one gives a shit about anything anyone else has to say. Every dialogue, in essence, is just a collective monologue. Two people can have a discussion but neither one is really listening to what the other is saying. We’re all just biting our tongues, waiting our turn to speak.
Infidelity is such a beautiful word. It reeks of unabridged passion. It redefines love and exposes people for who they really are: weak and pathetic sexual beings unable to relieve themselves of their desires. It leaves us fragile and vulnerable. It gives us perspective.
Did you ever think about whether the burden of being in control of everything is too much to bear for God? Maybe he really has left humankind to deal with the affairs and afflictions of life. Or maybe he is rocking back and forth in the adjacent padded room, singing Sisqo’s “Thong Song,” because its catchiness is indubitable, even to God.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
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