You hoped we were dead! Gone with the wind! Away on a magic carpet ride to oblivion! But you were wrong!
We were just plotting and biding our time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to release this auditory orgasm in your unworthy ears!
Listen to the first episode of the DNFTB podcast as Kevin the Penguin Master, resident advice columnist Auntie Liv and all-around perv Aggrey reminisce about the struggle of dial-up porn consumption and reveal exactly where to find our various porn stashes. And to top it off, we also solve the age old mystery of the Share button on streaming sites.
Abandon decency all ye who enter here!
MOLESTO HAS A GIRLFRIEND!!!!
This is literally the saddest news for all the thousands (possibly hundreds, maybe tens, perhaps ones, but who’s counting?) of ladies that were salivating at the thought of getting some of this prime grade D. But it’s now reserved for a party of one. Sorry, y’all is too late!
And with a girlfriend comes TONS OF SEX!!! LOADS OF IT!!! ON THE REGULAR! And warmth, love and companionship though why she wastes that on me I have no idea. She already got me with the first part, I wonder why she’s putting in the effort with all the rest. Anyway, SEXY SEX OF SEXTY!
But despite the state of my drained and shrivelled balls, a part of me still unsatisfied. You can only commit so many crimes against god, nature and physics with athletic sex. As all encompassing as her affection is, there are empty places in my heart that she cannot touch. It keeps me up at night trying to figure out what in could possibly be missing from what should be an ideal situation for this inappropriate toucher. Suddenly, with a crash like thunder I farted! After airing out my room, I finally figured out what I’d been missing. Or rather who. Palmela Handerson.
She had been with me for so long that a void was now left that a living, breathing partner could never replicate. Through my awkard teenage years, through my journey of discovery to even my coming into adulthood (a work that is vey much in its infancy), Palmela and her 5 sisters have seen me through the good times and the bad. They know my little quirks and ticks that only come with years of familiarity. Whenever my frustrations have built up, she has always been there with her crew to help relieve the pressue that has been building up inside. So many nostalgic days spent milking the one eyed snake, blowing the horn, choking the chicken, doing the five knuckle shuffle, beating the meat, tenderising the steak, giving me a low five, greasing the pipe, polishing the wood and evicting my testicular squatters.
Sure it was always rushed. Sure Palmela left me with a feeling of intense self-loathing and disgust. Sure she never really cared and was off as soon as the job was done. But she was there! And that’s what mattered. Now I can’t even think about now that I spend my days recovering in haze of post-sex dehydration. A man should not be reduced to living like this. It’s simply inhuman! But unfortunately, even Molesto has to bow down to societal demands at some point. Now it’s time to get and and do some stretches. Using a sex swing with meat hooks to do the reverse dragon dagger with an noose tightening incrementally is a lot more difficult than it sounds. Need to at least be warmed and limber for it.
Writing these days has proven to be a chore. The stresses and strains of having to pretend you’re a mature grownup have proven to be very taxing even for my Oscar-worthy acting skills. Things crop up, deadlines, pressures to perform and timelines to be met and before you know it, you’re stumbling into bed at 10pm, waiting to do it all over again the next day.
I don’t have time to search my favourite internet haunts for pictures and stories that will scour away the remainder of my soul. No time to listen to podcasts that push the boundaries of the shreds of decency that stubbornly cling onto my person. I don’t even have time for looking up what scenes from my favourite pornstars are up to.
I also can’t spare the energy to hate on the abominations that infests our lands that are children. They’ve been relegated to ants and herpes; an evil that I just have to learn to live with (not that I have herpes, at least that wasn’t the case last time I checked. So ladies, the ride is still open for business, OH YEAH!) No longer do I dream of creative ways of turning them into finger food. I’m too busy dreaming of how much sleep I’d love to get. Fantasies of kids as strength test dummies for prosthetic limbs have to be set aside for that fictional off day that is yet to arrive. I can no longer smile as I drift off to sleep because I don’t craft new ways of turning into a profitable competition the immense pleasure of dropping those unhuman monstrosities into active volcanoes.
If nothing else, this is what I will miss most as the responsible facade I put up becomes a reality, that more infants will be birthed and not immediately turned into finger food. Because I’ll have to live with the knowledge that if the world had given me more time, a baby-free utopia would have been ours to enjoy.
My whole life has been defined by the fact that I do as little as I can get away with. Laziness describes every aspect of my life, from skirt-chasing to personal hygiene. I never studied in primary school, gave it a try in high school and promptly gave up on that in uni. If I can get by with being average, I will.
Now I have duties and responsibilities I have to meet with this whole job thing I have to bear and it fucking sucks! And what sucks more is that I have no problem meeting them and I actually look forward to being challenged even more. THA HELL!?
My mind is ready to self-destruct. Who the hell am I and who is directing this meat sack of a body I’m supposedly pilot of? I should be swamped with half-done and deferred work. I should be a sneeze away from multiple crises and blowing my brains out from the pressure. I shouldn’t be quick to get things done and mad that someone else isn’t promptly answering my emails.
Instead I’m ready to actually work.
Goddammit! I think I’m becoming an adult.
The man-child: A noble creature that has been continuously hunted and persecuted, but just like prostitution, has refused to stay down and has managed to eke out an existence on the fringes of humanity. Even in this day and age when whoredom is gaining legitimacy and even legal status, man-children still suffer out in the cold of public rejection.
Beaten down for refusing to give in to societal pressure and sticking fast to what he holds dear, the man-child has been dubbed a failure. “Growing up” is venerated as the ideal everyone should aspire to, as if it is a long, hard struggle that few can achieve. But literally, billions upon billions of human beings have managed to do accomplish it, proving it’s nothing special.
All the man-child wants is the freedom to be what they want to be. Too many people pay lip service to the concept, but only the man-child follows through. Only the man-child is brave enough to reject attempts at burdening him with problems and issues in the name of “responsibility”, and seeks to carve his own path. Think of it as the purest form of the pursuit of happiness.
Most will claim that his interest in video games, shiny new toys, fast cars, women of questionable moral integrity is just immature and shallow. That his disregard of social norms by refusing hygiene, clinging to youth, indulging in substances with mind-altering properties, or ignoring emotional attachments make him an abomination to be shunned. But I say that a man-child has just managed to find his definition of bliss. And isn’t that what we all strive for? To be free from expectations of what we should be and how we should be. A man-child is that freedom personified, and should lauded for essentially achieving heaven on earth.
Let us begin to put an end to this last wall of discrimination and give the man-child his proper place in society as the icon that he is.