September 6, 2013

Politically Incorrect And Loving It

“I’d rape the living shit out of her,” is what comes out of my mouth when I see a hot chick walking down the street wearing some rather provocative clothing that causes my dick to bulge. I forget that phrase isn’t quite socially acceptable in the setting of a polite society. A feminist will probably say I’m encouraging rape culture just by uttering those words. Because of those words, I have shown that women are still being discriminated against and are being judged by misogynistic males, such as myself. That now I am directly responsible for any rapes that may occur because of it. Maybe I should say something along of the lines of “I find that female highly attractive, while I find her fashion of dress extremely alluring, it doesn’t give me the right to think I am entitled to have sex with her. I would, if given the opportunity, engage in consensual sexual intercourse that she, at any moment, has the right to stop.” Then I will be balls deep in politically correct pussy.

Maybe my mind has been warped by spending the formative years of my youth in the Army. Not just the Army, but in a combat arms unit full of solely males with too much testosterone, vanity, angst, and bloodlust. A place where “Fuck” and its many different variations is used more often than “the” and “a”. A place where being miserable, hating your life, being over worked and under paid is standard operating procedure. A place where going to war again and again is a fact of life. A place where being politically correct will get you eaten alive faster than a prepubescent girl at a pedophile convention. If you want that politically correct bull shit, go down the street to that support battalion full of females waiting to slam you with a sexual harassment charge.

I forget that most people don’t understand the uniquely vulgar and fucked sense of humor you acquire from just being a man with only men to talk to. A group of men who you tell the intricate details of the women you fuck, drunken and drug infused hijinks, the fights you were in, missions you were in, and the fucked up shit in your life. Most people spend their employment hours in politically correct bubbles where the most exciting conversation at the water cooler is that Cindi may have gone on a date with Brandon and how that’s against company fraternization policy.

I have devolved into an eloquent baboon. Nothing I say or think, as hard as I try, can be completely politically correct. I have lost that sense and probably need to take a women studies and cultural sensitivity class. While I do say those rapist words, I really don’t mean them. I mean I would just like to her fuck her brains out while pulling her hair, biting her neck, and spanking her ass raw, consensually of course. A woman with a college degree who is attractive, intelligent, and fast tracking through the corporate ladder can never simply be that. More likely she’s, “That smart ass bitch with a degree, total dick sucking lips, and amazing ass. She’s a fucking director at some company or some shit.” I can never ride my motorcycle through the Little Saigon area of Orange County without being terrified that some Vietnamese with shitty driving skills isn’t going to run me over. I can never look at a retard or a dead chick story on the news without thinking of the Ranger S&M Man song:

Who can take a retard,
7 stories high,
give him hits of acid,
then tell him he can fly

The S&M man, the S&M man,
the S&M man cause he mixes it with love
and makes the hurt feel good, makes the hurt feel good

Who can take a dead chick,
break into her tomb,
stab her in the gut,
then fuck the bloody womb

The S&M man, the S&M man,
the S&M man cause he mixes it with love
and makes the hurt feel good, makes the hurt feel good

Catchy ain’t it? The most horrid thing is that I’m laughing writing about that. Does that mean that I am waste of human flesh that should’ve ended up as a pearl neckless on my mother’s neck instead of being conceived and raised to be the insensitive man-child I am today? Probably. How dare I have a sense of humor that isn’t in line with a pre-approved list of acceptable subjects to laugh at? I made a sexist a joke. Oh fuck, I just punched the woman’s right movement in its clit and sent it back five years. A racist joke. Holy fuck, Martin Luther King Jr. is resurrecting from the grave and about to give me a stern talking to about judging a person by the content of their character and not the color of their skin. Oh right, I have to be sensitive, because some peoples ego’s are so fragile that whatever little hint of criticism will send them spiraling into oblivion. I guess my first amendment rights don’t apply if they hurt your feelings.

I may be a lost cause for political correctness. I should probably do something about it before the baboon mind completely takes hold irrevocably. I got an idea. I’ll apply to a liberal arts college, I’ll make sure to put in my latino status on the FAFSA and give a good sob story on my essay about how I powered through adversity despite my poor Mexican roots. Once accepted, I’ll major in political science because instead of spending tens of thousands dollars on a real degree, I’ll just waste it on a major that teaches you in four years what you could learn by watching the Discovery and History Channel in a week. Then I will join various clubs and groups that empathize political protests and being politically correct. My peers will be a bunch of girls with hair on their armpits and boys who shave their armpits. I will then talk about how passionate I am about women’s rights or the ozone layer, depending which nets me the most liberated, feminist pussy that particular week. I will also spend a semester studying abroad to some place like Italy. I’ll bring it up in every conversation for the next two years and talk about how it changed me to my very core, when in reality, I just got drunk with my fellow study abroad students and banged two Italian chicks. Then, I will graduate, move to Portland, and say I’m an artist but never work on my craft. I’ll have pseudo-intellectual conversations with my fellow barista’s and customers. I will act like I’m too good for my little $9 an hour gig and hold it in contempt because I have a college education.

Or maybe, I can actually have a sense of humor and not give a fuck if I offend you. Maybe I’ll just live life on my own terms and decide what is proper to say and do and what isn’t on my own accord. Maybe, instead of hanging with someone because they are a certain race and thus will show I am not racist by having them as friend, I’ll hang with someone of a different race because I actually like them. Maybe, instead of worrying about who I offend and may not like me and delete me from their Facebook, I be myself and attract the kind of people who get me and like me for who I am. Maybe, when I travel, I will accept it for what it is: Seeing a bunch of pretty things during the day and getting so drunk you forget about it at night. Maybe, when I go to a coffee shop to write, I won’t make pseudo-intellectual conversation with anyone, and instead, shut the fuck up and actually work on my writing about my unreasonable lust of women. Speaking of which, there is a pretty cute chick sitting on the other side of the coffee shop. Man, I would rape the living shit out of her. TC mark