Trickle-Down Pussynomics

I have a confession to make: I’ve been wearing the same pair of shorts for roughly a week now. A week is an approximation -- a guesstimate -- probably even longer. Sure, I own other pairs of pants, but these particular shorts have a giant hole in the right pocket which makes it easy for me to fondle my genitalia at all times. It’s easy to throw stones or cast dispersions upon me during this week-long round of pocket pool, but, please, withhold your judgment until later, and give me a chance to explain. Like many at the forefront of the fashion industry, at first it seems aloof, before exploding into the mainstream. If there is nothing but a sixteenth of an inch of fabric separating my fingers and deez nuts, the fabric has to go (look for the new line of fake pocket shorts from CK -- coming soon). I’m a simple man of simple pleasures, like a lot of other guys in the United States and around the world:


I am just trying to make my nuts do the windmill.


Being the sensitive, 90’s kind of guy that I am, I find it appalling that I am here writing this on Wednesday, at the beginning of a long weekend, and that Carmen Electra isn’t waiting to lick Jennifer Love Hewitt’s day-old pussy boogers off the crusty end of my twat-mangler. Sure, I could find some local chicks to do it, but I would much rather have Britney Spears or some other decent piece of celebrity cooze doing the honors for a change.


In the meantime, I will just settle for tossing my nuts in a circular direction through the pocket of my pants.


Something needs to be done about the giant gap between the haves and have-nots, when it comes to access to the celebrity slush bucket. I can neither endorse the “trickle down” economic policies put forth by the Nazis that run the Republican Party, nor support those filthy ass dirty communists that we should have nuked back into the Stone Age in the 80’s. Rather, I move towards the socio-economics of the lovable Swiss. Thanks to Swedish wealth distribution, there is a very small rift between the rich and the poor in their culture. Our government needs to enact similar legislation that will keep the common folk out of pussy poverty. Like many guys, I just want to rest my nuts on Britney Spears’ forehead -- just once. I ain’t asking for much; all’s a brotha wants is a mutha fucking snack. Look at how I have supported her: I saw Crossroads, dammit! SHE OWES ME! I mean, I don’t want to take her to court or anything, but people have been asking me, “Man, you actually like her music?” Shit, I didn’t even know she was in a band!


I’m not going to blame her. I place the blame squarely on the media and these three individuals:


Fred Durst – This nu-metal-lame-o has had way more than his share of hot, top-quality Hollywood snatch-o-la: Britney, Carmen, Alyssa Milano, and now Halle Berry? That’s fucked up. That no talent, has-been, metal rapper has about as much rhyme flow as a thirteen year-old virgin vagina plugged with a novelty, oversized tampon. Sorry Fred, it was a good ride while it lasted. Now, you are way over your pussy quota, and your goose is cooked. Hand over the jamtarts.


Hugh Hefner – This walking corpse has been pulling young, naive bimbos, six or seven at a time, since the 1950’s, and will continue as long as Pfizer keeps cranking out enough “blue diamonds” to raise his fossilized pecker north towards the Hot-Tub-Full-Of-Sluts in the east wing cave-grotto of the Playboy Mansion. Hugh, a mid-life crisis is only supposed to last a few years; you don’t make a life out of it. Sorry, your goose is also now, officially, cooked. From now on, we are capping your salary at one Playboy bunny per year. Even under these restrictions, you’ll still be living better than 90% of us.


Justin Timberlake – This ex-boyband, Michael Jackson wannabe, Justin Limbercock, has had Britney Spears and Alyssa Milano feuding over him at various points, and has even been carnally connected to Janet Jackson. Look ladies: he’s just some twinkle-toed, prancing-ass, common-ass white boy. I’ve grown completely tired of all you bitches going on and on about how cute he is. Sorry, JT, but we have dicks too – your undeserved monopoly is over. It ain’t no fun, if the homies can’t have some; your goose is cooked.


Now, after reading the three proceeding paragraphs, you might think I’ve just consumed a 50-gallon drum of industrial strength Haterade. I assure you this is not the case. These guys are just doing what I would do if I had the chance; I shouldn’t blame them. The problem is women in this country are completely incapable of thinking for themselves. The media and pop culture dictate what is sexy. If they keep saying, over and over, “Sean Connery is hot, Sean Connery is hot,” for long enough, bitches, even though they think he’s an old, balding, limey geezer, go out and fuck him. Then more bitches fuck him, because some other famous bitches broke him off, and this repeats, over and over again, until he has to leave his house in an ark for fear of drowning in a flood of quim.


The same can be said for men. People magazine and all these awards shows have declared Sophia Loren “the sexiest woman alive” so many times, the clueless guys believe the hype. Fact: Sophia Loren is an old bag of bones, half a century past menopause. If you ask me, one of the hottest chicks alive right now is the stovepipe that hosted “Talk Soup”, Aisha Tyler – that is a serious chunk of hot snatch. Now, thanks to my media-slaying ferocity, Aisha Tyler is officially a sex symbol. You heard it here first: the media dictates what is sexy and the public blindly follows.


“Well, if that’s what they’re giving us to fuck, then that’s what we’ll fuck…”


With my new agenda, using the Swiss system for distributing wealth, this would never happen again. There will now be laws limiting the amount of celebrity snatch that can be consumed per male celebrity. What is good news for you and me, is bad news for Charlie Sheen, but who cares? Like I said before, we have dicks too, and with the enforcement of mandatory pussy quotas, by law, I will be entitled to live my lifelong dream of teabagging Britney Spears.


Now, all’s I need to do is put my friends and me next up in the pecking order. To that end, I will launch a giant subliminal media blitz about how hot, sexy, trendy, and famous we are. Intermingled with my senseless ranting, will be secret-hidden-encrypted messages on the subject of how I am an unmitigated sex god, and Edward Norton is nothing but a low-rent, Hollywood version of me.


Meanwhile, Fred Durst will be sitting in the hot tub of the Ritz Hotel in Hollywood, about to double-dick Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera, not knowing that he is now past his PUSSY QUOTA and the mandatory enforcement of shnizzle-sharing wealth is about to kick into full effect. At the moment of truth, Fred will begin serving spaghetti like Chef Boyardee, and the disappointed vixens will catch the first flight to Jersey, where they will rendezvous with me at my office. I will teabag them both. Yeah, it took some toil, but, alas, my nuts are finally doing the windmill!