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Dear PC Liberal: Fuck a Multicultural Cactus and Die

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Above: a mosaic of ‘Coexist' stickers on the back of various cars.

The leftists in this country honestly—honestly—deeply amuse and bemuse me. Jonas Hill drops the word ‘faggot’ and Donald Sterling is, well, Donald Sterling and someone refers to Chaz Bono with the wrong pronoun and people absolutely lose their shit like a broken colostomy bag that just got splattered all over the Twittersphere.

And yet, when ISIS rages on undeterred minus a few Western furrowed brows and the vast majority of Middle Eastern countries prevent women from being anything but glorified baby-male-makers and a guy giving another guy head will get you stoned to death in certain parts of the world, the ‘liberals’ of this country remain inanely silent in the good ol’ name of multiculturalism and coexistence.

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Anonymous
asks:
Your post on rimming was pure erotica. It was a pleasure to read, as are all your posts. Your wit matches if not exceeds your sexiness.

*blushin’*

asks:
Um hi you're cute

Why thank you, Mr… Always Super Horny. You’re frank. Always appreciated.

Nudie Pics Are Nothing Short of Spectacular (You Just Have to Own Them)

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Nudity is actually quite awesome.

And before the prudes tighten their garters and the priests push down their altar boys a little bit lower, I am not referring to the plumper of people who wear thongs meant for twigs while in public or the frightening twinks who wore that… thing.

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The Man Cave: an abandoned palace—save one—filled to the brim with inescapable pleasure involving beer, bourbon, barolo, books, Breaking Bad, and beating off.
The Friend

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Every gay guy has The Friend

The Friend’s behavior is what some call abandoned, others call whatever, and what too many misidentify as careless—but this is what makes this friend The Friend

We’ve all been there, accusatory eyes, cocked heads, furrowing brows directed toward him as he interacts with [insert random guy here]. We all know—or at least think we know—that he’ll be sleeping with that stranger. Bareback. That night. Or day. Begin the group gasp. Then the traitor-like smile we all return when The Friend comes back and asks, ‘He’s cute, isn’t he?’ 

And yet, it’s nothing but a deeply disgusting, unhealthy thing. And not what The Friend does but what we do. The Clean. Or the presumption of cleanliness (as godliness always is: presumed). Sitting there, putting on this facade that somehow advertises that we have never—never—engaged in what The Friend does and therefore judging his character silently in his head: ‘He could be cute but of course he isn’t cute because of… You. What I think I know you will do.’

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Great art or thinking should fuck the shit outta you.
Prolixist
If anyone needs proof of the need for STEM education within the States, look no further than the vast majority of men found on Grindr: never before have I witnessed five inches incorrectly measured so many times in my life.
Prolixist
I fuck up. All the time. Practically daily. But at least when I do fuck up again, I fuck up better than the last time I fucked up. People: FUCK UP BETTER.
Prolixist
I Don’t Like You but I Want You to Like Me Inside My Head so I Am Going to Say I Like You

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You know, you don’t have to like me—on any level really. Whether your intentions are a friendship, professional relation, date, relationship, hookup, or [insert prerogative here], you hold no obligation to actually like me or be nice to me.

And yet, you clearly feel an obligation to like me—at least on a superficial level. Because you don’t really like me. If you genuinely liked me, we would be communicating. Not as in all the time, but simply like those all-too-strange beings known as psychologically sound humans. And we don’t. We don’t really communicate authentically at all. Yet you insist that we do and should.

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