To All Inferior Men: Real Sex

Missionary. Doggy style. Stand and deliver. Ugh, don't make me vomit. You may impress your tight-lipped string-haired liquored up floozy of that slab of mush you call a girlfriend, but don't come bragging to me on a Friday night just because you got her off the meth long enough to orgasm. No style. No style at all. It takes a man's man to submit to such tepid monotony, slathering your turgid pole with WD-40 and slipping it between two flaps of tresca - that's rotten cod if you aren't familiar with the social and cultural advances of the Russians. Then again, it takes a woman's man to just put in a little effort, to produce the sweet smells of dripping romance, delectable and aromatic enough that you might collect it to make a stock for soup tomorrow. In case you weren't paying attention, by the way, two sentences ago I just called you gay.

Because you have the reading comprehension of someone who watched Fight Club and then formed one, I'll tell you plainly: I'm a master of the sexual arts. With the daring-do of an acrobat and the dusky, masculine voice of a thousand hummingbirds flapping their wings to produce the English language, I sweep women off their feet and have them begging for more years after I've finished. They cry out - they want to call my name but all is in vain, for they do not know it. Instead they say "Oh God, oh God," and I find this very fitting. I am the lover who disappears when they turn away for even a second, leaving only a sense of longing. I leave an exhausted woman with the tired smile of satisfaction. I have thirty-seven children whom I have never met. All of them grew up to be kings.

And you wish to know my secrets? Of course you do. Such an oaf you are, to think that you can even lick my sweat off of the floor, to think that your penis is anything more than a primitive tool of reproduction, to think that your balls are worth even as much as the sack of pennies they resemble, to think that your seed is more than the rank poison, carried through the generations by pickpockets, con men, and cowards who would faint at the thought of defending a woman's honor. You disgust me. I am surprised that you manage to speak, as mangled and careless as your diction may be.

And so I will not help you. I will not help you because it pleases me to see you try so hard and to fail eternally, and I will not help you for I am a kind man, and maybe by my actions the world may be blessed by a lack of your offspring. So return, return to your hovel, that shanty that you call a home, hung low with dry rot and almost as many cobwebs as there are in your skull. Return to your girlfriend, and she will open her mouth to say hello, revealing her yellowing teeth and blackened gums so that you might lick off the collected bacteria like a proper parasite should. Return to your life, your day-to-day drudgery, sneaking out with other women so that you can be educated in all the varieties of diseased garbage, pretending that you have enough brain cells remaining for one more swig of cat's piss at the bar, knowing that your greatest contribution in life will be your gravestone, which will mark that any vegetables that grow nearby are not worthy of eating. Return, and return quickly, for I have fucking to do elsewhere.