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Archive for the ‘Sex’ 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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BeTheBoy, primo heartbreaker.

I had wanted to go out with her for a long time but I was unable to because things just got in the way. Finally, when things were out of the way I asked her out and we made plans for dinner. When the night finally arrived we were sitting over a dinner that had been a long time coming and talking about why it had taken so long to get there when her phone rang and she was told that her father had suffered a heart attack. I paid the check and we left the food on the table. Damn it, the way things were going I was pretty sure this night was going to end with some booze and ass slapping and now I have to drive her to the hospital. Damn stupid heart attack having father ruining my chances to see his daughter nekkid.

So we get to the hospital where I meet her family, it was awkward but at least I didn’t have to meet her father who busy at the time. Having not eaten much in the way of dinner we finished our date over vending machine candy bars and sodas in the hospital waiting room while we waited for the doctor.

As it turns out her dad only THOUGHT he was having a heart attack and after some tests he was cleared to go home. By this time it was too late to pick up where we left off, but we had the next day and night.

Rantasaurus Says: At least you didn’t get to see Daddy nekkid… with a tag on his foot as they wheeled him downstairs.

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To the newly-preggers new employee,

You must think that everyone in this office is a complete idiot. We all know the gestation period for a human fetus and can all do the math. We all know that you got knocked up the same week you started working here. Batting your eyelashes and acting “suprised” about the result of your stupidity isn’t going to wash, especially with the poor sucker who has to find a replacement for you while you ride the government dime.

Creative Freakin’ Genius-a-saurus 

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Catherinette Singleton, TWO TIME RANTSPLOSION WINNER! Stop it, you minx!

I live in a nice little house, in a nice little neighborhood, next door to a family that belongs in a van down by the river. At first, I thought them merely a little off, now, I want to beat them with hammers whenever I see or hear them. And it seems to me that I hear them more often than I see them. It’s gotten so bad that I can’t stand being outside when they’re around. If I’m in my backyard and see any of them come outside, I immediately run back inside under the pretense of having to go do something really important – like stick my head in the oven or throw myself down the stairs. Let me introduce you to these upstanding members of the community:

The Single Mother (who we shall call Ms. Travesty): is a recovering alcoholic, recovering drug addict, and full-time nurse. Ms. Travesty enjoys wearing light colored blue jeans and stained white shirts. She’s in her mid 50’s and has an 8 year old daughter – she met the father in AA meetings (he’s on methadone). When she’s not picking up single bachelors from her AA meetings, she’s calling the cops to have them dragged out of the house, and/or trying to tell me stories about how she’s gained weight.

My favorite story about Ms. Travesty happened last summer: she had met this real winner and had been dating him for about 6 weeks. Mr. Winner had no job, no driver’s license and had pretty much moved into her house. Suddenly, they start fighting like cats and dogs. On a Tuesday afternoon, I was sitting in my den watching TV, when I noticed that there were 3 cop cars parked outside my house. I immediately called my friends and family to share the drama that was unfolding. 20 minutes later, out comes Mr. Winner in a pair of handcuffs, his cut off jean shorts, and the dirty white wife beater. It was just like being on an episode of Cops! The officers put him in the back of the cop car, and then he started yelling all sorts of crazy stuff. Since then, I have tried my best to avoid Ms. Travesty at all costs. It’s gotten to the point that when I see her standing in her driveway, I whip out my cell phone and pretend to be on a very important phone call. This ploy seems to work pretty well, I highly recommend it to you.

The Daughter (who we shall call Little Tragedy): at one point I thought she was cute, now she makes me want to kick her when I see her. She and all her little friends love playing in the neighborhood. That’s all well and good, but why must they do it on my front lawn? Don’t they hear my dog going nuts in the house? Seriously, I’m surprised that my dog hasn’t jumped out the window and eaten her and her little friends. My dog, a St. Bernard, loathes and despises her. I know this because he decided to biter her one day, twice. It was not a pretty scene, though it was an extremely effective way to ensure Little Tragedy never came into my house again.

She used to drop by my house all the time, when she was hungry and her mother had left her alone with her grandfather – who would pass out on the couch and not even realize that she had left the house. As Little Tragedy has grown up, I’ve noticed her imminent progression into soon-to-be-school-hussy. What 8 year old do you know that wears cropped tops and glitter eye shadow? It’s sad to Little Tragedy her go down this road, but I know she’ll end up pleasing the boys in the men’s’ room sometime really soon.

The Dogs (lovingly referred to as the Hounds of Hell): I hate them with a passion that burns to my very core. I wouldn’t hate them so much, but Ms. Travesty thinks it’s a good idea to let them out at 4:00 in the morning. Fine, release the Hounds of Hell, but please let them back in when they start barking. Oh no, not Ms. Travesty. Instead, the Hounds of Hell bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, for 2 hours straight, directly underneath my bedroom window. What’s really super is that sometimes she lets the Hounds of Hell out right when I’m attempting to go to sleep. There seems to be no limit to her disregard for her neighbors.

I hate you Ms. Travesty, I really do.

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Jessi, keepin’ the TMI factor in check

Personally, I do NOT care to read the public comments of how much you ‘oh so love’ somebody. Or the fact that you will be getting laid in 2 days and your current love interest better be ready for a rockin’! (insert shudder here) You know why? I mean, other than the fact that most of us are out of 7th grade? Because that should be semi-private here, folks!

Goodness knows, I can share some good sex stories, just like my GF’s can attest. Especially after a few drinks. HOWEVER, I do not post it on the comments section of my BF’s page. If I have something like this to share, I will email him directly, send it to his inbox, call him or (and here’s a thought) just fucking TELL HIM in person. Of course I love my BF, but I will refrain from embarassing him and myself in most instances. At least, if I can help it.

Really, I’m truly thrilled you have found the love of your life. Or in some of my friend’s cases, your love of the month/week/season. Whatever works. But please SPARE me the sap, I don’t watch soap operas for a reason. Trust me, if I’m rolling my eyes at your comment, there’s a reason.

An occasional ‘I love you’ is cool. I won’t gag. An entire litany of ‘you are the reason I am living, blah, blah, blah’ is enough to bring my firmly settled lunch special back up onto my keyboard. If you get a FedEx in the mail, rectangularly-shaped, I’m just sending you my regurgitated regards. And you owe me a new keyboard.

One noted exception – you are planning to post the pictures of the special upcoming raunch fest for us to share. Then feel free to spout away with all your feelings for ‘poopsie’ or ‘lovey-bear’. Cause I’ll skip the ‘verbage’ and just enjoy the visuals. Video is acceptable as well.

Rantasaurus Says: Ooh sugar dumplin’, you’re so sweet. You’re so sweet, I can’t wait to eat. *wink* C u tonite, luvr.

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Not So Happily Ever After

Jack, rudely awakened by Cosmopolitan

Just last week we sat in the pub with friends, drinking trendy beer with bit of lemon in the neck of the bottle. Everything seemed so rosy in the garden, she, my so called wife was gushing on about our marriage and how chuffed she was that our relationship thrives because it contains no secrets. She even gave me a kiss in front of every one. What a devious cow, how could any one be so cold hearted, never mind the bloody woman I gave my soul … my all to.

Last week my heart nearly leaped from my ribcage, bursting with pride. Now, it feels like its been ripped clean out by those cold callous bare faced lies she spouted and I don’t think … no I know forgiveness will never come.

Six years of what I thought was blissful marriage, and all the time she was lying. How could she? I’ll never be able to look at any of our so called friends in the eye ever again, they knew, the bastards, they knew and they let me think everything was all right.

All the effort I put into this shallow relationship now seems so stupid and pointless. What I thought was adequate quite simply wasn’t. Six fucking years the cow has been saying, ‘Oh honey your the best. Your a stallion and a sex machine.’ and for six fucking years the bitch has faked every single orgasm .What a fucking cow, I simply cannot believe it.

It was as if someone had stuck a knife through my heart when I read that survey she had filled in Cosmopolitan magazine. Would it not have been simpler to say, Jack you are rubbish at sex, you need to read some books, watch some videos for tips, oh and by the way, plastic surgery … apparently it only costs a thousand pounds an inch.

Rantasaurus Says: Apparently, from what I’m reading in my various girlfriends’ Cosmos, I need to have mine shortened an inch or thirty. Wink.

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