Jason Alan. Writer, Character.

Short stories, rants, poetry, novels under construction… and look, cows!


Stupid people now seem to have the advantage. There are all sorts of lame, ignorant laws to protect them. I say we take away the seat belt and helmet laws and let them, upon glorious freeway crash with a Ford F350 dually, dine upon an all you can eat buffet of safety glass and shortly after enjoy a sweet, decadent dessert of facial concrete. Fuck them. The road is already filled to the brim with a bevy of brainless idiots that always seem to congregate directly in front of me like a soulless line at the department of motor vehicles. Let them die a violent death as nature and technology intended. But hey, it’s not just me I’m thinking of. Think of all the little old ladies driving to church who could get a tiny dent in their Galaxy 500 because some moron drove their rusty old Chevette into them when they weren’t paying attention. Do we really need these wastes of carbon based material? They’re useless fucksticks who need to get the hell off the road to make room for those who deserve it. Like me. I’m too busy texting my friends while eating a bacon cheeseburger to have to spend my quality driving time worrying about dodging these tards. Just die already. The liquor store doesn’t fucking drive to me, and my coke dealer is too goddamn high to deliver.


First chapter of a future novel. Full disclosure, I know almost nothing about the Old West, I’m just doing this for the fun of it. Also because page after page just kept pouring out of me. Let me know what you think so far.


There were no doors at the front of the saloon, as it never closed, but the few patrons there that afternoon heard the clicks of her custom made, high heeled boots on the old wooden floor as she entered. That was the only sound. The boots and hat were black, dusty from the road, but it was the immaculate red dress with a slit up one side to her upper thigh that at first drew the silence of the men. Her hourglass figure, stunning legs and long, fiery red hair damn near made the clock stop.

One long mirror about two feet high spanned almost the length of the back of the dark oak bar and stopped just before it curved off to one side. They were as filthy as could be, but still useful enough. Everything in the saloon, including its inhabitants and proprietor, was dusty and weathered, but the bar itself was shinier than the day it had been built. The barkeep, in fact, had been wiping it down before she walked in and stopped him cold. Another oval mirror to the right, hung too high and a rectangular one on the front wall to the left, hung crooked, both framed in wrought iron. Several paintings scattered seemingly at random here and there on the walls that only a mother could love.

There was a small stage to the left that was occasionally used whenever the few people in town that could play an instrument got together, but not recently. Liquor, beer and the local drunk doing his impersonation of singing until somebody threatened to remove his teeth was evidently enough entertainment for the locals most of the time. Thirteen tables, three of them occupied by four men, at least three of them armed. One sitting by the stage at the front, two by the entrance and one in the back where the bar ended. She couldn’t see him very well, so he was the only one she was worried about.

None of them looked to be sheriffs or deputies. That could end up being good or bad, depending on the situation. The way the two men sitting together looked at her like dogs in heat, it might be a bad thing. For them.

The barkeep had a shotgun that was so covered with dirt, it may have never even been used. She saw that as a bonus. A man who didn’t even bother to clean his weapon was not a man that was quick to use it. If she were two inches shorter, she wouldn’t have seen it but would have assumed it to be there. She had surveyed all this and more in the ten steps that it took to get to a stool.

“Whiskey, double,” she said, taking a gold coin from her bra and putting it on the bar. “The good stuff. And don’t stop until my tab is paid.”

After a few drawn out seconds of being transfixed by her ample cleavage, the barkeep snapped out of it. “Yes’m, comin’ right up.”

She managed a little smile on one side of her full lips and rolled her magnificent eyes. Little green circles of steel encased in glass accented by long black lashes.
Men, she thought.

The two that had been sitting together at a table near the entrance were already ambling toward her. Their whispers stopped as they got close, but she could hear the giggle of little boys wearing the garb of men. The welcoming committee in this town didn’t waste any time, she mused as she spied them in the mirror.

They were average height, both scruffy, dirty and unattractive. The one on her left had a protruding belly that had processed more meat than a dozen slaughterhouses. The other was to her right, skinny but stout. They both were strong, and in more ways than one. They were close enough for her to smell their stench. It was not the scent of anyone she cared to associate with, and she assumed correctly that her opinion didn’t matter to them half a bit.
“Now, fellas,” the bartender warned feebly as he delivered her drink.

“Shut up, boss,” the fat one said, not removing his prying eyes from her.

“What’s yer name, sweetheart?” he asked, putting his unwashed hand on her exposed thigh. “More importantly, how much?”

She sighed and drank the whiskey in one swallow, admiring the glass a bit as she put it down. At least it was clean. “Your comment I can let pass, fat man, but I suggest you take your hand off me before you lose it.”

“Ooh, lookie here,” he said with a smile full of rotten teeth, his body moving closer to her, his smile widening, “we got a feisty one today.”

He squeezed her thigh and both men laughed, but their amusement ended abruptly. In one swift move, she had both their weapons. Before her barstool hit the floor, she was behind the big man with his own revolver cocked and pressed firmly against his left temple. The butt of the other gun she had just acquired was on his right shoulder, pointed at his partner.

“Put your hands up and walk five paces back. Put your gun on the bar and get the hell away from it. Slowly.” She cocked the other gun to punctuate her request.

“Alright now, ma’am, just don’t do anything stupid now.”

“Spare me the lesson, professor, just do as I say.”

He did as he was told and when he stopped, she swung her right arm toward the other man sitting by the stage. He had drawn his firearm, but didn’t seem scared like the skinny man looked. She couldn’t see very much of the fat man’s face, but the way he was shaking, she didn’t need to. There would be no surprise if he had pissed himself. Not that she would have been able to smell any difference.

“I’m gonna need you to put your weapon down on the table and back away,” she said.
He returned her request with stone-faced silence.

“Do you really want to die today?” she asked.

The man at the table smiled. “What are you gonna do, kill us all?”

She smiled in return and managed a quick laugh. “Well, the barkeep ain’t drawn on me. Yet. And the fella in the corner over there,” she motioned to the left with her head, her hair swaying softly against her breasts, “hasn’t either, far as I can tell, so I say their chances are pretty good.”

“As for the one hiding behind the bar,” she continued, “he might just mess around and get his head blown off. That would be a shame, really. He’s so young. I’d be shocked if he had two hairs on his nuts.”

“Shit.” The kid rose up after a few seconds and deftly pointed a shotgun at her over the bar. “Don’t make me shoot, lady.”

Before he finished the sentence, another lightning fast move from her brought the gun in her right pointed to the man seated, the one in her left to the kid and the fat man screaming in pain. She had kicked the heel from her left boot, revealing a three and a half inch blade, sharp as a barbor’s razor. It was buried in the back of his foot.

“Goddamnit, Pete,” the barkeep said, looking at the kid.

“Sorry daddy,” Pete said, not looking away from her, “but if you ain’t gonna pick up your piece, I will.”

Fat man’s scream came to a stop and he started panting heavily. He called her a whore under his breath, thinking it was quiet enough that she wouldn’t hear it. She did, and asked his name. No answer. She was not looking at him, but the two firearms pointed at her.

Her foot twitched and fresh pain shot into his foot and up his leg, a bolt of lightning all the way to his head. He yelled again, topping it off with a half recognizable version of his name.

“Alright, Wesley, if that’s what you said,” she responded, “now we’re getting somewhere. As you are fully aware, but maybe these gentleman ain’t, there is a knife in your foot. Feels like it’s right behind the Achilles. Do you want to let these fellas know it’s probably a good idea to put their guns down? If this goes south, three of us is gon’ get shot and you’ll be spending the rest of your days walking with a limp.”

Wesley breathed in heavily between gritted teeth. “Come on, guys, this hurts like hell. You seen how quick she is, help me out here.”

Pete looked at the bartender, who nodded and gave him a what-are-you-stupid look.
She continued. “Wesley, is it necessary for me to explain to your fellow patrons of this establishment how important an Achilles tendon is?”

Tears were cutting strips of grime from Wesley’s face. “Put the goddamn guns down!” He screamed.

“Fine,” the boy agreed, after a quick angry gaze at his father, reluctantly setting the shotgun on the bar and stepping back.

Those deep green eyes set in her soft, fair features focused more closely on the man sitting at the table, who had not yet relieved himself of his pistol. He was still pointing it at her, and still smiling.

Another man came to the entrance, unarmed, clean and well dressed. The finely tailored suit most likely cost more than most residents of the town made in six months. She told him to mind his business in a voice as stoic as it was harmonious. He took two seconds to evaluate the situation and ran off.

“Go over there with the barkeep, Pete,” she said, and he did. She then pointed both guns at the man seated. Strategically. One at his head, one at the heart. And he knew it. “Nobody has to die here today. I can pull my blade out of your buddy’s foot here and I’m sure the doc can fix ‘im up right and he will walk again and everybody can live to disrespect the ladies another day.”

He remained silent for a moment, continuing to smile.

“So, little lady, what makes you think you can just waltz into our quiet little town and start waving guns around and threatening these poor boys, and what makes you think that fat piece of shit is my friend?”

“Hey!” Wesley shouted, obviously injured by his statement. She twitched her foot slightly and he screamed again.

“I make it a point to not shoot first but in your case-” she cut her sentence off when she saw him move.

He aimed at her chest but she had already ducked and returned fire. His first bullet went high into Pete’s shoulder and his second sunk into the ground while his free hand grasped his bleeding throat. He dropped. She pulled her modified heel out of Wesley’s foot and stuck it into the old wooden floor, giving her enough leverage to use her other boot to kick him square in the back. He tripped on the toppled over barstool and hit the ground flailing and weeping.

Pete was holding his shoulder and screaming like a newborn, his father the bartender right at his side. The kid’s holler might as well have been a church bell, considering all the people she could see outside that had begun to gather around. There wasn’t much time before the law would show up, and killing lawmen was always a messy affair.
There’s no time for this shit, she thought.

Her guns went to the skinny man, his hands still up, and the bartender. “That gold I gave you should be enough to pay for three more drinks. I know you have a child to attend to but he’ll keep. The bullet went clean through. He’ll live. Make me another double and give these wounded little cry babies something too. Maybe it’ll help with the pain and shut ’em up. Not like it matters now. And no sudden movements.”

“Yes’m”, he got up slowly and replied respectfully, handing Pete his handkerchief. “Hold this to the wound, son.”

“Take off your belt and toss it to me,” she told the skinny man, “and when I leave, ya’ll can go get the doctor so he can fix these would be bad boy outlaws up nice.”

The bartender poured three glasses as the man removed his gun belt and threw it to her. She put one gun on the bar and put the heel back on her boot, concealing the blood-soaked blade. Her second and last glass of whiskey slid down her svelte throat as she buckled the belt on her waist. She holstered the revolver on the bar and held the other one out, gliding back and forth, on nobody and everybody at once, as she backed toward the door.

“You got some damn fine whiskey. It’s too bad I won’t be coming back to enjoy any more of it. When you boys talk to the sheriff,” she stressed to them as she glanced both ways out front, “you tell him who shot who and more important, who shot first. And if he feels froggy enough to jump after me, tell him Jesse James wouldn’t take too kindly to anybody messing with his sister.”

And like a ghost, she was gone.

i am, part ten – cc: @OptimisticDoom

i do believe i finally have the final edit on this one. maybe…

i am raindrops on corpses
and whiskers on tigers
strong and weak forces
and bright copper wires
brown paper airplanes
all tied up with strings
with just our names
written right on the wings
i am nuclear warfare
crisp blue seas
naturally lubed sex
sliding with ease
i am gals in white thongs
with blue satin sashes
bowls full of hash and
colored beads for free flashes
poverty’s playground
third world paradise
heidi klum
heidi fleiss
and nice
a wild hawk that perches
and sometimes it sings
i am your most feared
your most favorite things

Chapter One: Capital Punishment, Abortion and Free Puppies

Pretty much completed (unless I decide to add to it, again) first chapter from my upcoming sequel to Spank Material for the Clinically Insane, which is available via amazon here and might I add, has ONLY five star reviews. That’s five out of a hundred, but that’s decent. Anyway, here’s a bit of what’s next. I hop there’s no typos. ‘Nuff said.


I was sitting around drinking and smoking (what’s new?), and thinking about what my first chapter should be about, and decided in my infinite wisdom to start off with some light, cheery subjects. The first? The death penalty.

Kill ’em all. Let decomposition sort ’em out.

I am all for what is referred to as ‘capital punishment’, which is a bullshit ass politically correct term for getting rid of an asshole that truly does not deserve to breathe the same highly polluted air that the rest of us enjoy. But like pretty much everything in life, I believe that this act must be carried out under certain parameters. This is a complicated topic that cannot be summed up in merely a sentence or two.

I was fucking an underage girl on top of the body of my last murder victim and the cops busted in and arrested me for growing a pot plant.

The first thing we must address is who. Or whom. I call myself a writer, so I should know this shit. But I don’t, and I digress. You can’t just execute everyone convicted of whatever heinous crimes you could think of, including pedophilia, rape, cold blooded murder and watching cooking shows. We would have to make sure that there is one hundred percent surety that the person did it. Alright, maybe the high 90s percentile region. Almost nothing is certain in this world. There are people on Death Row that are innocent. No, not Death Row Records. All of them are guilty.

Why confess to a murder you didn’t commit unless there’s somebody really hot in prison you want to rape?

Let’s take Lyle and Erik Menendez, for example. They brutally dispatched not only their parents, but two others as well. They confessed, and while some people confess to crimes they didn’t commit, it’s their own fucking fault and those people are broken so we don’t need them around anyway. As of this writing, the Menendez brothers are still alive. You and I and other (mostly) law abiding citizens of this great(?) nation are paying to house and feed them. Wonderful, isn’t it?

The only way we will get our shit together is if we all defecate in the same place.

But seriously, do we really need to keep sadistic cunts like Charles Manson in freshly laundered clothes and fed shit on a shingle using our (sometimes) hard earned tax dollars? There are citizens of California right now at work in their cubicles, going over spreadsheets and tweeting about their rampant alcoholism and the taxes are going straight to this prick. Not only that, but ol’ Charlie, while locked up, isn’t working either. And what does that mean? He’s not fucking paying taxes. Just kill him already. Either that, or let him out and force him to work at a Smoothie King in a strip mall in Kansas and die an even slower, more painful death.

My farts stink so much because I’m dead inside.

Another aspect of capital punishment is the method. Oh and by the way, don’t you just love how they call it capital punishment instead of the death penalty? Might as well say ‘creative population control’. Anyway, what do we have as far as ways to end a life within the confines of the law? In the U.S., according to a website that looks reputable enough for me (it has a dot org address, what else do you want?), there are five ways. And in case you’re heck bent on correcting me, the stats are from 1976 to whenever they updated it.

If you don’t assault, rape and murder her on the first date, she probably won’t respond to your texts.

Lethal injection is the one that has been used the most, and is also the primary method in all states. One fine state of the union has electrocution as a secondary choice, and I quote, ‘if lethal injection drugs cannot be obtained’. Evidently rat poison, generic drain cleaner, bleach, large doses of heroin and air bubbles are routinely unavailable in Tennessee. Maybe they should just have Jack Kevorkian on speed dial. Yeah, I know he’s dead. Fuck off.

You give crazy people powerful weapons, people die. Prime example: the U.S. government.

Of course, the old joke refers to how they swab the injection site before they stick the needle in. You know, as to avoid the infection. Injection, infection, what’s your confection? On one hand, I hope this isn’t true. On the other foot (see what I did there?), it most likely does happen. People are not only dumber than platypus nuts, we (actually no, they, not we. I am more evolved) are diametrically opposed to giving up traditions, no matter how silly they may be. This is exactly why organized religion still exists. Many of these beliefs and practices are so ridiculous, it would take years, if not decades, of study by a Tibetan monk to find anything more patently stupid. He would, of course, have to be studying religiously, oddly enough.

Women can learn a lot from monks. Namely, shutting the fuck up and shaving their heads.

The next in line is Ol’ Sparky, the electric chair. The eighth commandment, or amendment, or whatever the kids are calling them these days, forbids cruel and unusual punishment. It can easily be argued that strapping someone into a metal chair and lighting them up like a menorah is a cruel thing, considering there is a lot of pain involved. But unusual is a different story. The first few times it was done, it was not the usual way to snuff out someone’s life. Notice that it says cruel and unusual, not cruel or unusual. Implying that the technique can be cruel but not unusual, or unusual but not cruel.

It’s sad when people die in movies, but not so much in real life.

For example, an official representing the state could conceivably give a monkey a gun and let it shoot the offender in question. While unusual, it is not cruel because it’s a quick death. That is, if the first bullet is the kill shot. If the banana eating, crap throwing primate shoots the inmate in the junk, then it is thereby upgraded to cruel and unusual. Also, hilarious. Therefore, unless the gun is secured, stationary and pointed directly at the prisoner’s head, we would have to scratch death by monkey off the list of potential future methods of execution.

Establish dominance. Stab her on the first date.

Next, we have the gas chamber. What the fuck is that one all about? What is the initial cost, and how much is the upkeep? It has to be quite expensive, considering it needs to be hermetically sealed so the nice boys in the execution team don’t inhale any of that mustard or mayonnaise gas or whatever they use in there. Don’t we realize that it doesn’t take that much money to kill someone? Just go through certain parts of a large city at night and you just might find out first hand.

Go ahead, call the cops. I’ll kill them too.

Then there’s the fact that it has been done a mere eleven times, and is only the secondary method in five states. Oh boy, does the government know how to waste our fucking money.

Now I am become taxes, the destroyer of wallets.

Next up to the plate is hanging. Hmmm, I wonder if they sterilize the rope? Now that’s what I’m talking about. Not only cost effective, but quick and uh, effective. I would take that any day over the chair or the chamber. Ooh wait, the chamber chair. I like that. An electric chair inside the gas chamber. I should write my local representative. If they make a reality show, I would watch that. Plus, the commercials would cover the costs. I’m a fucking genius.

I have literally bored seven people to death. Luckily the judge had to let me go for fear of suffering the same fate.

And last, but definitely not least, is firing squad. Not bad. A half dozen bullets or so and a blindfold, done and done. No problem with that one. And I hear that one person gets a gun loaded with a blank, but they don’t know who. That way nobody knows who offed the poor guy.

My cum sock is filled with more dead, useless organisms than Auschwitz circa 1944.

I also heard (on a tv show, which may or may not be as or more reputable than a dot org website) that there is a one in seven hundred thousand chance of dying under general anesthesia. So, obviously, we take death row inmates and pair them up with medical students. The future physicians will get to practice procedures on the people that nobody cares about (except the NAACP or ASPCA or ACLU or whoever). If the prisoner dies, who gives a fuck? If they don’t, they get to live another day and medical science is furthered. That’s a win win in my book.

A wife beater isn’t just a t-shirt, it’s also a man that knows how to treat a woman.

Speaking of beating your wife, the next topic I will be addressing is abortion. A hot button issue for many, but as usual, I have all the answers.

People in glass houses should fuck more.

Many who attempt to debate the good ol’ suck and chuck keep treating it like a black and white issue. We don’t go straight from the sperm breaking and entering the egg right to full on newborn baby. There’s some time in between. It’s a process. It’s not just pro-choice or pro-life, there are shades of… goddamnit. I can’t use the term shades of gray without thinking about that stupid fucking book.

Christians don’t like abortion because that would be one less destitute person to issue a gun to and send to Iraq.

But I digress. Again. I’m so digressive. Personally, I’m pro-choice if I have to pick one, but at a certain point a relatively civilized society has to draw the line. Nobody should, through legislation or other means, be able to prohibit a woman from taking a morning after pill. Conversely, if the fetus is mere days or weeks from coming out on its own and the woman isn’t at risk, then there’s no reason to break out the Dyson at that point. If you don’t want it, put the lil’ tricycle engine up for adoption. Let another family molest the kid.

I’ll install a 454 Chevy Big Block in your miscarriage.

And don’t get me started about the term pro-life, even though I am about to do just that. Not only are the self-righteous pricks immune to logic and critical thinking, the term itself is loaded. Pro-life, my stinky balls. How many of them support the aforementioned death penalty and/or want the entire Middle East turned into a field of glass because their prophets, not their god mind you (same god), are different people who may or may not have even existed?

We could make beautiful babies together, using parts of other beautiful babies.

It’s flat out insanity and downright childish to make up your mind about something and every single rational argument against your ideological principles is met with holding their hands to their ears and a ‘nananana I can’t hear you’ mentality. Tell your goddamn god while you’re spouting useless prayers that you have a mind of your own and fucking use it already.

Let’s go fuck some pregnant chicks so we don’t have to worry about child support.

Oh, and lest we forget that if the woman (or teenager, in many cases) doesn’t want to give birth, she is most likely poor and will remain that way. So if forced to go to term, the unwanted kid will grow up poor as well, continuing the cycle of poverty and that in turn increases the risk of your future offspring being assaulted and/or murdered, etc. Because news flash, wait for it… most violent crime is committed by the poor.

Gated communities only keep the lazy criminals out.

And plus, who the fuck wants to be raised by a most likely single parent that doesn’t want you to begin with? Personally, I would rather be cared for and eaten during a harsh winter by a nice, loving family of wolves that sadly, cannot have children. So, why don’t they have the baby and adopt it out, you might ask. Fuck that shit. Extra babies and cheap plastic shit is what China is for. I know, I’m aware I suggested adoption merely paragraphs earlier. No worries, I affect no legislation, I just write shitty books.

America owes how much to China? How’s this possible? How many bobblehead dolls do we have to buy from you slanty eyed twats to make it even?

The bottom line is, the mother is more important than the fetus, flat out. If you don’t like it, too fucking bad. Logic wins in this arena and oddly enough, wins under the law. Our legal system is no doubt a clustercunt, but it gets some things right. So maybe you should pack your shit and move to a country where abortion isn’t legal. Oh yeah, most of those places are shitholes that treat women like subhuman garbage. Good luck and smooth sailing, bitches.

I support abortion, gang rape, ethnic cleansing and bunny rabbits.

The title of this chapter promised free puppies. I lied, there aren’t any. Go suck rocks and kick eggs.


My next ebook will be my second poetry volume, a collection of romantic and dark pieces, often both. This will probably be the only bit of prose other than the foreword, unless i write another that is worthy. But you get to read it first. Happy happy joy joy.

we sat there, passing the joint casually between us, not looking at each other. stoic. our eyes engaged, enraptured in and within the ocean, red with the blood of the innocent lives we had just taken. their bodies floated all around, headless, limbless buoys bouncing. the sun was setting, tossing fiery blankets of light upon the waves, and we both knew what we wanted.

i took one last hit, flicked the roach into the amber sea and removed my shirt. i glanced at her briefly. she was a rock. emotionless. yet she followed my lead and removed her little black dress. we threw our garments into the water at the same time, still not looking at each other. we had that thing, that ‘you know what’s up’ thing.

she had on matching panties and bra, bright pink. just like her hair and her usual demeanor. i had shorts on, but nothing else. for a moment, we locked eyes. yes. we knew. then, in an instant of time that in my mind could have been recorded using a mayan calendar, we were naked, our clothes quickly doused in gasoline and in flames. swaying in the hydrogen, oxygen, blood and salt.

we were sitting up and wrapped around one another, her calves caressing my ass and my heels dug into the subtle tan lines where her underwear used to be. her arms held me close and those razor sharp red fingernails cut into my shoulders. i squeezed with my hard biceps and pulled her hair. hard. as we hurt each other, we kissed ever so softly and slowly, so deliberately. our lips played as the bodies bobbed in the ocean.

i have to be inside you, i told her.

she looked at me, still a blank slate. then, after a brief moment, smiled so brightly in that waning light. take me, she said. i was about to respond, but she pressed her finger on my lips.

please, she said. please take me.

i grinned like a schoolboy and grabbed her, throwing her back onto that packed, wet sand. i grabbed the meatiest part of her thigh and whipped her over, tucking my arm beneath her belly and lifting her ass into the salty air. pressing my crotch into her and whispering into her ear, with a little murder in my voice. you’re mine. you’re mine now.

we writhed in the pleasure and the pain we inflicted upon each other, the coarse sand scratching our bodies and biting our wounds. we were finished before the sirens reached us, off to revel in the chaos of another day.

Why? Fuck You, That’s Why.

One of the dumbest questions ever. Why? For the blatantly obvious shit, it’s annoying. If somebody said they felt like going to the kitchen, getting a butcher knife and planting it squarely in my forehead, I would of course ask why. Maybe I could talk them out of it, or distract them long enough to get my gun. Oh, who am I kidding? I would most likely point another direction, yell ‘hey look it’s Gary Coleman!’ and run like a bitch.

But when I say I’m going to the grocery store and they ask why, I really feel like telling them I’m getting a new butcher knife because the old one isn’t sharp enough to get through that thick fucking skull of theirs. Seriously, you dumbass, I’ve had a twelve pack of beer and I’m out. Obviously I’m driving to get more and to avoid your idiotic queries for a while.

There is a thing good about it, though. That stupid, three letter question gives you a nice indication of the mental capacity of this person. If your girlfriend asks you why you are putting a jacket on, you know. You are aware that you shouldn’t ask her to help you with your physics homework, but you also know she’s great in bed. Dumb women and crazy bitches are wild in the sack.

That being said, be careful. They may rock your socks and knock your boots off, but the dumber they are, the more likely they are to get pregnant. It’s best to strap on three condoms and drop a morning after pill along with the roofie in her drink.

So if you wish to at least maintain the illusion that you are not semi-retarded, then think about your question of why before it comes spilling out of your stupid face. Here’s a simple way to do it. If the question can be answered by putting ‘because’ in front of the statement preceding it, don’t ask. For example, I want Chinese food for dinner tonight. Why? Because I want Chinese food for dinner tonight.

If you’re one of these people that do this annoying bullshit and don’t take this post as an opportunity to learn something, then take a good, long hard look in the mirror. And slam your forehead into it. Repeatedly. Why? Because you’re a dumb fuck.


notice me
see me
come closer
closer still
say hello
am i nervous
sit down
talk to me
are you nervous
smile again
your hand
my hand
that moment
kiss me
what is this
meet me tomorrow
in the morning
more you
more us
thank you
the next day
will you touch me
will you hold me
will you be with me
will you marry me
will you be with me
will you love me

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