Archive for the ‘Naughty’ Category

Dear Clueless Ex-Manager,

I just wanted to thank you for spreading the rumor that I was screwing another jewelry store’s manager. That made it so much easier for me to find a job after you fired me because I was selling twice as much as anyone else in the store (including you).

I just wanted to let you know that I was sleeping with my co-worker…the only male in the store. Remember that afternoon that you thought he came over to help me “move furniture” on his lunch hour and wondered why he came back so sweaty? Wonder no more. And yes, we screwed on the clock.

Your Faithful Employee

P.S. You really should think about having those carpets cleaned. Especially by the watch counter.


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Mark S, happy with his manhood 

How many more times will I get a variation of the mail-box clog about improving my manhood? I find it quite a bother to be continually told that nature forgot to endow me with the package that would make it difficult to wear a normal pair of jeans, let alone walk without a pirates peg-leg limp and that some monk sitting constipated has come up with a solution just for me.

I mean, how do they know I need help? Did the cybergeek Star Trek addict that formulated this and and other mind-numbing delete-key-deserving drivel somehow spy on me in my shower with an infrared telephoto wi-fi webcam bought at spysrus.com?

I fully understand the concept of mass advertising. But when an e-mail arrives at my mailbox, addressed to me specifically and my name used in the greeting instead of, say, an impersonal entry such as “Dear joke of a man,” I take insult.

The spammer is one of those dog-butt-sniffing, child-molesting porno star wannabees who needs to be neutered so that his progeny who will no doubt be born with less than the one brain cell and will never breathe the same air as us higher life forms. The spammer’s instrument is the one that needs recalibration, not mine.

For had he checked more thoroughly my curriculum vitae before adding me to his mail clog list, he would have known that I don’t need male enhancement. Had he surveyed the many women I known before, he would have gotten a response that would have made him seek me out for advice on how to use his tool more effectively. From the first to the latest, women who have experienced me, recall me with a returning glow of fond memory.

Rantasaurus Says: Oh, Mark, those were beautiful April nights in Paris… er…. yeah. Spam sucks.

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To my supposed friend of the last 15+ years,

Just a little note to let you know, sweetpea. You….are….so….BUSTED! I don’t just mean “caught”, I mean BUSTED with a capital B. You might just as well have broadcast the last two years of your twisted existence on the Jumbotron at Wembley because in what I predict to be a very short period of time, everyone is going to know what you’ve been up to. ( The circle we travel in does like to chat, don’t they dah-ling? )

My…my…my. We’ve been very naughty, haven’t we? Unfortunately for you, your lapse of judgment and loss of ethics seems to have clouded your memory. Although I only possess one tiny piece of the puzzle, it hasn’t proven that difficult to unravel the terribly tangled web you’ve woven. You had every opportunity to keep me out of it but for reasons unclear to me, you hauled me right into the center of your mess and then hoped I wouldn’t notice the stench. It’s a good thing you’re pretty because you certainly aren’t very clever, after all. Oh, don’t go getting a big head about it, you’re not THAT pretty. Lying has a way of making you very ugly very quickly.

I’m certain you didn’t count on me being able to retrace your dodgy steps all the way back to the beginning, but I did. I’m certain you didn’t count on me hanging on to that tiny puzzle piece, but I did. I’m certain you never dreamed I’d actually take the time to figure it all out, but I did. I’m certain you didn’t count on others who are more than happy to step forward and fill me in on all the little details, but they did. Seems you need to stop believing your own press because you’re not nearly as popular ( or as removed from consequences ) as you’ve been telling yourself.

What did you honestly think would happen? That I’d hold up to my end of the bargain and conveniently forget about yours? Sorry, luvey but that’s not how I roll.

In closing, may I remind you that everything you put out into the Universe revisits you tenfold. I certainly wouldn’t want to be standing next to you when the Universe comes-a-calling to collect that debt.


Creative Freakin’ Genius-a-Saurus

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Dear Obnoxious Drunken Tourists,

Thank you for visiting my fair city. I appreciate the money you’re spending here. Here’s a few ground rules to help you not incur my wrath (and the wrath of others who live here)?

  1. Please do not pee/spit/crap/eliminate other bodily fluids on the street or on residents’ porches. When I’m walking down the street and I have to step around your giant loogie, or watch you on the corner urinating on someone’s porch, it makes me angry.
  2. Yes, you’re in New Orleans. Yes, it is awesome. Please stop screaming and “WOOO”ing at the top of your lungs in a residential neighborhood at 3 in the morning. People do live in the French Quarter, and they are sleeping. This is an effective way to catch a faceful of plant from the person who has a shrubbery on a second floor balcony.
  3. Heterosexual men: Please do not assume that every woman on the street wants those cheap-ass beads hanging from your neck. Some of us are from here and could really care less about a 3 dollar set of beads. Also, just because a girl will not show you her boobs does not make her a “big fat d*ke”.
  4. Women: You wouldn’t have to explain to your kids/parents/husbands/girlfriends why you’re on the Girls Gone Wild commercial if you didn’t flash your stuff. We know you want those beads around that dude’s neck so you could prove that you were on Bourbon Street, but how’s about buying a postcard or decorative plate instead? By the way, I suggest you not show the lower ladybits (or manbits) unless you want a one-way ticket to the closest jail cell.
  5. Religious fanatics: We understand that you are here to spread the word of whatever deity you worship. That’s fine. However, please refrain from chasing people down the street, grabbing at their clothes, and screaming about how they’re going to burn in hell for all eternity because they’re in New Orleans. I don’t see you screaming that at the people who go to church on Sunday mornings, and they’re in New Orleans too. Oh, and as for that “God Hates F*gs” preacher guy? You’re not allowed here ever again.

If you stick to these rules, we’ll get along a lot better. If not, we’ll just have to come to your town and pee in your plants, scream at the tops of our lungs at 4 in the morning, harass people walking down the street, show our naughty bits to random passerby, and smack people over the heads with giant wooden crosses and assorted Chick Tracts.


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SmallClutching, not a fan of modesty

Roland Emmerich was the only man that could have directed ‘Independence Day’, likewise only Kubric could have made ‘Clockwork Orange’ and Sellers was the only man capable of pulling off ‘Dr. Strangelove’.

But if they made a movie about my cock, there would be only one team of professionals worthy of helming the massive project – N.A.S.A.

The scale would be enormous. Lucas’s THX sound would not suffice, because the deep thrombing sub-bass level bass deep noises my shlong makes would take a new advance in delivery only a team of approximately
340,000 Harvard trained scientists could muster.

The visuals, of course, would be presented digitally, no finer definition would deliver the full levels of colour and vibrancy expected by an eager public awaiting visual presentation of such a monolithic slice of shaft.

Puny Meg-naplex 3300 screens would have to be significantly rescaled to contain the full breadths of my pulsating member, anomorphic enhancement would be impossible. It would have to be presented in true scale – and this in itself would present a delivery problem on a scale with the virgin birth of Christ.

The narration would call for a voice on the level of James Earl Jones – James could deftly explain the nuances of my cock to a frightened audience, explaining the history of a shaft so significant that it defies the Gausian curve and makes play with prior theories of physics and geography – yes geography!

The news coverage would be global, the premier attended by royalty, presidents and leaders from all nations. There would be visits by beings from other planets – initially questioning the time delay in their satellite transmissions from Earth – but later realising that the problems were due to a tear in the fabric of time from my morning wood.

Box office chaos would bankrupt many smaller countries- causing massive bans and censorship leading to widespread world wars, famine and poverty, as the 3rd world saved up to buy tickets to see my cock on screen.

But, at the end of it all, standing in the smoking ruins of the planet, all peoples would come together in the shadow and feel a sense of pride and hope at winessing one of the miracles of the universe gliding across their skylines. All hail the collosal serpent. The tattoo on it’s monster head reads…

“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom… know what is enough until we know what is more than enough.”

William Blake

Rantasaurus Says: I’m sorry, but I think this is absolutely fucking hilarious. We need more rants like this folks. This is comic gold.

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Will S, playing with fire

One night in bed I did something I’d never done before. Well, I’d never done it by myself at least.

I somehow managed, while sleeping, to carve a deep gash into my upper arm, just above the elbow. Not only am I unsure how this happened I wasn’t even aware of it happening until I woke up partially covered in my own blood. Luckily for me this is not the first time I’ve awoken to find more blood on me than I expected but this time there were no broken bottles nearby or my ex-girlfriend with her devil grin to help explain. This one’s a mystery for now.

I met a girl once who liked to bleed. At first she just liked to be bitten, which I am game for. Then she wanted BITING, till it left marks, again…I tried to give it my best. Leaving my dental records on her body wasn’t cutting it though, literally, because she wanted me to break the skin…bite ’till she bled.

Couldn’t do it, no way, no how. No amount of begging or barter could change my mind. Her angry insistence couldn’t change my mind. The .25 in her purse couldn’t make me do it, even when she pointed it to my face. I tried and just couldn’t do it, and I didn’t really believe she’d hurt me . At the end of the night, neither of us ended up bleeding.

She left, I never saw her after that, which is good even if it was up until the violence the best second date a guy could hope for.

Rantasaurus Says: If that’s what passes for a good date, why don’t you come over and watch me gnaw on a mammoth carcass. We can cuddle afterwards.

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Eugene Y, rich, gullible and bitter about it

Oysters. I don’t get it. First of all, science has already proven, above and beyond, that oysters are not an aphrodisiac. They don’t biologically make you horny, they just make women juice because they cost a lot of money. Same thing about champagne and chocolate covered strawberries.

I could buy a tank of gas and take myself for a nice drive around for the price of a champagne/strawberry/oyster thing, but no.

I have to show up at some broad’s house with this shit, probably shuck the oysters myself, chill the champagne to within a degree of the accepted standard, make sure the strawberries haven’t melted all over my hands, draw a bath (at my brilliant suggestion, of course), whisper sweet nothings and THEN we finally go to dinner. It’s not even the sex now, it’s the dinner.

There, I pay, of course, and just as we’re pulling up to her place where we’ll finally seal the deal and I’ve got money hemorrhaging out of my wallet and stupid oysters on my breath, then she’ll tell me that she has an early meeting tomorrow or, worse yet, she’s falling down drunk.

Wow. I was going to write about how stupid oysters are, but instead it’s women who are stupid. That’s right, I said it. I don’t have to romance my hand to the tune of $200 to get a nice piece, if you know what I mean.

Rantasaurus Says: Eugene, you’ve been doing it all wrong. First, you buy some “sleeping pills,” then you buy them a can of PBR to dump them in and the rest takes care of itself. That’s like, what? A five dollar date?

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