10 Ways You Know You’re An Alcoholic.

1.  You can only tell what time it is by how many drinks you’ve had… Oh, look at that, it’s 3 whiskeys past a vodka.

2. You have no friends.

3. The friends you do have are over 60, unemployed and hate everything, including you.

4. You wake up in bed at 3am, wet yourself, then go back to sleep.

5. You don’t so much go to bed as you do fall into the bed, miss, and smash your face in the floor. You then make no effort to correct this error.

6. Being drenched from head to toe in your own vomit and urine is no longer the ‘faux pas’ it used to be.

7. Your daughter asks you,

“where do unicorns live?” To which you respond,

“You’re why daddy drinks…”

8. Your idea of a romantic night out with your partner is starting a fight with the waitress in your local McDonald’s because she wont let you light a candle on your anniversary (which was actually 3 weeks ago) due to it being a fire hazard and also your drunkenness.

9. Drenching your friends from head to toe in your own vomit and urine is no longer the ‘faux pas’ it used to be.

10. You pass out before reading this far.

What apps do I have?

I don’t have “apps” I have fucking applications because I’m not a fucking cunt.

Stop fucking abbreviating everything in the name of sounding fucking cool and hip.

The only “app” your ipone needs is a sharp rusty pike that pins your skull to the curb any time you say “app” instead of application “because” you think it’s cool and hip to do so because iphone adverts told you so.

Also, how about an app to pull your god damned trousers up, I’m sick of seeing you faggoty assed nancy boys prancing around with your asses showing, your ass is not sexy, it is a lump of shit, go to the gym and get some proper trousers that fit.

Also, you need an app that teaches you some God damned manners, how about an app that turns your phone off when you’re around other people, oh wait, you need to not have an iphone to have that because it’s called fucking civility and only people who aren’t utter cunts have it.

My phone is a 4 year old, pay as you go, brick which can only accept incoming calls. It has two games, snake, and snake two, and it doesn’t have a colour screen and it’s battery lasts approx 12 hours. When somebody calls me it goes “ring, ring”, instead of “I KISSED A GIRL AND I LIKED IT! HOPE MY BOYFRIEND DON’T MIND IT!” over and over again.

Why own this instead of an iphone? Because my phone doesn’t turn me into a raging trend hopping metrosexual faggot. Instead of changing me, my phone reflects who I am, and that is a heterosexual man’s man.

Fuck your technology and your faggotry, they are one and the same.

Published in: on 01/10/2009 at 11:53 am  Comments (1)  
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I fucked an amputee…

Last weekend was wilder than a jaguar on crack with its cock into a toaster.
A friend of mine, James, was holding a little B.B.Q. house-warming type shin-dig and invited me along (I very much think he regrets that decision now). I’m not entirely sure why he invited me because we don’t know each other that well, and anybody who does know me, knows it’s better not to invite me to these occasions, regardless he invited me.

I was meant to be there at around 5pm. I showed up at 11.30 in police custody.

I was meant to bring a house warming gift. I threw up in his shoes and punched his friend.

I was meant to help him get into some girl he likes. I fucked her to prove I could then fucked her amputee sister to win £50.

Let me explain. You see I was planning on showing up and being civil as I so often do… However circumstance prevented it. I just so happens that an old ex-girlfriend was in town, so I decided to go meet her, I don’t really know why I did, but I guess I don’t really have to since my cock made that decision for me, as it does with most decision which relate to vaginas.

Anyway, I went out to meet her and all went well, and we’re meeting again next week. I wasn’t entirely drunk when she left and it was only 7.30 and I don’t arrive at parties at 7.30 as far as I’m concerned if a party ends before 4a.m. it’s not a fucking party, so I had a few drinks on my own…

Untill I met some Americans. Now, the Americans fucking love us Irish and it’s pretty much mandatory that we leach the fucking shit out of this one way relationship. And so, like a 13 year old Japanese school girl taking advantage of elderly perverts through the medium of used underpants and up-skirt videos I pounced. They bought me so much fucking drink I went fucking blind. Who would have known that watching Irish people drink is like a fucking Olympic sport to Americans? I was not fucking complaining.

I don’t quite remember how this next part happened, but the bar got shut down… I’m sure I and a rather rowdy crowd of Americans were responsible somehow but I really can’t remember how.

And so, we took to the streets and like freshly liberated Guantanamo inmates breathing fresh air for the first time we threw up, en mass, all over the street, and then all over a police car, then all inside the police car, and a more beautiful sight I haven’t seen since.

The police dropped the Americans off at their hotel. They were actually quite nice about the incident, although, I “should have known better” according to P.C. Jim Davies, or whatever the fuck his name was, who decided to drop me home, needless to say, I lied about where my home was, and told him the address of my friends house.

When we got there, the B.B.Q. had expanded and there were a few smokers standing outside the front door and you could see some people round the side drinking.

“Are you sure this is your house?” He asked, to which I replied,

“Why yes fine sir, I am most sure that this establishment is my home, you may drop me off here sir and I shall trouble neither yourself nor these streets any more with my jovial antics, and here is a tuppence tip for your fine services this eve!” Which translates roughly to “Course, thus is..my?….. house… I KNOW WHERE I LIBE!!!!” (I was still quite drunk, and a little drowsy.)

After a brief conversation at the door between James and the nice policeman I was allowed in on the condition that James wouldn’t let me out of his sight. This is no small task, but neither James nor the policeman though this would be an issue, as both of them thought I’d be passed out in an hour… How wrong they were…

When the policeman had left James escorted me through the hall and up the stairs as quickly as he could to prevent me being seen by his lovely presentable friends, to which I took great offence, I believe my exact words were,

“James! No! James! Look at me! James! FUCK YOU! What? What is it? Am I not fancy enough to be around your friends!? I can be fancy James! Want me to be fancy?! I’ll wear a fucking doily and drink tea and talk about the establishment and lick bums James! Is that what you want James!!!!”

It was at this point that James’ shoes were to become the victims of an oncoming barrage of Technicolor fluids which would make a great excursion from my stomach to my mouth and inevitably into James’ shoes.

On completing the arduous task of vomiting all over my friends household I decided I had become sober enough to join the party, so I cleaned up and went downstairs to chat, I was talking to the girl James wanted into, and for a good 15 minutes straight some long haired hippy mother fucker who dressed almost entirely in fucking hemp was staring at me, needless to say I initiated a confrontation, only to find out, after punching him, that he had a lazy eye, sounds cliche, but this is my life. I was nice enough, I apologised and helped him clean up his bloodied face and we’re good friends now. In so much that I didn’t do any of that he hates me.

Anyway, James’ supposed woman to be, Jennifer, was quite impressed by my awesome face breaking skills and we fucked in James’ bed, I felt that if I were to betray him I should at least do it with a degree of class.

This is where we get to the fun part of the story. After fucking she introduced me to her sister…

This was awkward for a number of reasons, the first being that I offered her a hand shake, regardless of the fact she had no arms or legs, the second being that 10 minutes later I did the same thing drunkenly thinking she was somebody else. We did not get off to a good start. Inevitably my male friends started joking about how little Nancy No Legs wouldn’t fuck me if I were the last man on the planet. Needless to say I took this as a challenge and a bet was made, all my male friends chipped in raising a total of £50 if I fucked her I got it, if I didn’t I would be left with neither pride nor dignity.

Truth be told after I got talking to her she was actually quite interesting and I kinda wish I’d talked to her sober and not fucked her for money, but alas, this is life. As it turned out, she had climbed various mountains and on one trip she ended up having to be rescued after getting lost or some shit like that and for some reason (I can’t remember what) that had to take her arms and legs off. Anyway I feigned sympathy and interest for a while and told her plenty of men would like her (she had no self-esteem, which I’m guessing should be fairly obvious considering the fact she’s no fucking arms or legs) and the conversation went a bit like this:

“I have no arms or legs lol”

“That’s awesome, does that make rolling down hills more or less fun?”

“MOAR LAWLAWLAWLAWLALWLWL!”

“Your sister’s a good lay”

“I’m ugly”

“You are…. LOL”

“That hurt :(”

“Sorry, you’re not really, want to fuck?”

“OK!”

Obviously the conversation was longer and more complex but I can’t be fucked going into the whole thing, and also, I don’t remember most of it.

Anyway, I don’t know if any of you have ever fucked a girl with no arms or legs but there are certain things about doing it that can be a little… strange.

We’ll work backwards, from the end of the sexual experience to the start.

When you’re finished you have the option of stealing her clothes and moving her wheelchair into the hallway… I thought for a good 5 minutes about this. On the one hand it’s hideously cruel, on the other, it’s horrendously funny and a once in a life time opportunity. I’ll let your imaginations decide which option I went for.

When you’re fucking, you feel so much bigger in proportion, it feels like fucking a 2/3 human size bag of potatoes with a face.

Undressing her kinda takes the spark out of the moment a little (well,  that’s assuming that the lack of arms and legs hadn’t done that already.) It feels like you’re 7 again and taking the clothes off of your sister’s Barbie dolls to see what’s under them, except at the end you don’t bite the head off and spit it out the window…

The worst part about the whole experience?

Before we did it she wanted me to take her to the bathroom… I won’t even go into what that was like…

Which is more fag-tastic? AIDs or Twilight?

Since Twilight is the biggest pile of malignant, steaming, dinosaur diarrhoea I’ve ever had the misfortune of having been bombarded with – by both retarded, illiterate, emo, shit stains (who you’d be forgiven for thinking are little more than a mass of extras from the lesser known B movie: ‘Chernobyl: the aftermath,’) the media, and countless cretins, perpetually masturbating, in orgasmic delight, to whoever decided to cast that potato headed, mongoloid, queer bait, cunt faced, twat browed, fuck basket as the star (I don’t know or care to know his name) – I’ve decided to conduct some research…

Today we’ll be finding out just how fagtastically bum loving Twilight is.

In Pie Chart A, as illustrated below, we see, through seconds of painstaking research, that Twilight is vastly more bum loving than AIDs:

Having AIDs, it's considerably less gay than watching or reading Twilight...

Having AIDs; it's considerably less gay than watching Twilight... You read it, it's official.

In the next step in concluding just how much of an ass-ramming-bumathon Twilight is, I compared it to a prostate massage.

See Pie Chart B, below, for the results of my painstaking research:

Prostate Massages; recieving one, or giving one, is less gay than watching Twilight... Getting the picture yet you bum loving sphinctal explorer?

Prostate Massages; receiving one, or giving one, is less gay than watching Twilight... Getting the picture yet you bum loving sphinctal explorer?

When I finished my research, I decided that this isn’t really enough to decide once and for all that Twilight is the most massively, homosexual, steaming pile of horse shit ever…

So, I decided to put Twilight to one final test.

If Clint Eastwood watches Twilight in its entirety, then Twilight is officially not a bum licking festival of rampant rent boy abuse, if however, Clint Eastwood cannot watch Twilight in its entirety, then Twilight is, as I thought before conducting this research, a steaming pile of accidentally spilt bum fudge fueled by Gay Pride, sprinkled with the AIDs infested cum of 607k AIDs suffering bum lovers who perpetually masturbate to prostate massages…

Here are the results of the ‘Clint Eastwood test’ as captured on digital camera:

clinteastwoodwatchingtwilightclinteastwoodonwatchingtwilight
I guess that settles it:

If you watch Twilight, you might as well be watching Brokeback Mountain; watching Twilight is the equivalent of masturbating with a rabid (same sex) badger with a dildo up it’s ass and Twilight itself is to the arts what Nazi Germany was to diversity, multiculturalism and acceptance.

Men like porn, who’d have known?

Today was a somewhat strange day for me, I went out for a meal with my girlfriend, it was mildly amusing and we talked of a great many things, well she talked of a great many things, I nodded and pretended I could “completely relate to that” and hit on the waitress when she wasn’t looking since I knew I wasn’t getting sex tonight, and quite frankly, I’ll be fucked If I’m going to pay over £100 for a two course meal and not fuck something at the end of it.

Anyway, we got onto some strange topics of discussion during the course of the meal, one topic being her wanting to understand my having a vast deal of pornography despite having her.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is a topic of conversation that is what I like to know as a complete fucking minefield. I’m not just talking a regular minefield here, I’m talking a 30 year old death trap in some weird Asian European shit hole that has claimed the lives and limbs of over 300,000 small third world children despite the best efforts of a load of self-righteous aid workers. Now while that image is fucking hilarious, it is not fun to have to negotiate your way through this minefield on the rickety bike of male linguistic skills after 4 pints and an Irish coffee.

This is how the conversation went down:

“Why do you have so much porn when you can have sex with me?”
“Can I have sex 24 hours a day 7 days a week?”
“No, not quite, but it’s pretty close.”
“Well, that’s why I have porn… Porn’s there for me when you’re not”
“Wouldn’t you delete it?”
“I’m gonna go ahead and tell you that that happening is about as likely as you winning the Nobel Peace Prize.”
“Listen, I hate you having porn… It… Offends me a little.”

Needless to say the conversation ended in the ultimatum:

“Me or the porn” in more words.

I’m assuming you can guess what I chose since I’m sitting at home alone infront of this computer at 4 in the morning…

I guess I’m single again, but I’ll always have porn, porn doesn’t judge me, porn doesn’t force me to make decisions, porn doesn’t complain when I watch Big Butt Bonanza instead of hoovering.

…In hindsight, I should have just pretended to delete my porn, oh well, not that big a deal since I did get that waitresses number.

Some female propaganda.

I found this, apparently, it’s “27 ways to make a girl smile,” as far as I and you are concerned it’s “27 ways to friendzone yourself like a complete fucking faggot and be seen as ‘another one of the girls’ like some cockless eunich.” The original list of “27 ways to make a girl smile” or as far as I and you are concerned the “27 ways to friendzone yourself like a complete fucking faggot and be seen as ‘another one of the girls’ like some cockless eunich,” is in regular font, my changes are in italics.

1. Tell her she is beautiful (not hot, fine, or sexy)
Don’t compliment women until you’re sure you’re just about to fuck them, and even then it’s dodgy territory.

2 . Hold her hand at any moment . . . even if its just for a second.
Holding hands is for faggots.

3 . Kiss her on the forehead.
You know who kisses women on the forehead?

…Their gay friends. That’s who. Are you a gay friend?

4 . Leave her voice messages to wake up to.
Yea, that’s nice, but here’s how a man wakes up

1., wake up,
2., have a piss and a shit,
3., maybe, if you’re feeling up to it, have a wank

Note how nowhere in that list did I say “leave her a voice message like a stalker faggot with no social skills.”

5 . Always tell her you love her every second of the day.
Or, don’t say it in excess of once every 3 days and make her work for it.

6 . When she is upset, hold her tight and tell her how much she means to you.
When she is upset; get a new one; she’s broken.

7 . Recognize the small things . . . they usually mean the most.
Or, alternatively, just an idea, WHO THE FUCK CARES?

8 . Sing to her no matter how horrible your voice is.
You know who sings Barry White? That’s right, Barry fucking White, let’s keep it that way shit fuck, I don’t need to hear you woeing your walking vagina with your tone deaf bullshit.

9 . Pick her over all the other girls you hang out with.
Or ignore her when you’re with other women. Sometimes the most counter productive methods are the most effective, and by sometimes, I mean pretty much all the time, and by pretty much all the time, I mean do what I say faggot.

10 . Write her notes. (she loves them)
The only note you write in your lifetime should be addressed to your family and when you finish writing it you should take a long sip of whiskey and shoot yourself in the head in your study.

11 . Introduce her to family and friends . . . as your girlfriend.
If she actually is your girlfriend, other wise it’s weird. Actually, on second thought, if she is your girlfriend, introduce her as “some girl I met in the pub earlier,” women love an asshole.

12 . Play with her hair.
Don’t you’re an idiot, you’ll just get tangled in it and make a mess.

13 . Pick her up, tickle her, and play-wrestle with her.
Or beat her.

14 . Sit in the park and just talk to her.
Parks are for drinking and frisby, nothing else.

15 . Tell her funny jokes, tell her stupid jokes, or just tell her jokes.
Stupid jokes = goofy = friendzone, boring jokes = boring = friendzone. Jokes = dated and boring = friendzone, write an anecdote, or even better actually have a real one to tell. Then beat her.

16 . Throw pebbles at her window in the middle of the night . . . just because you missed her.
Don’t go near her house in the middle of the night, unless you’re burning it to the ground in the name of vengeance, otherwise, you’re a faggot.

17 . Let her fall asleep in your arms.
Then have sex with her.

18. Carve your names into a tree.
Then have sex with her.

19 . If she’s mad at you, kiss her.
Then rape her.

20 . Give her piggyback rides.
Don’t.

21 . Bring her flowers
Then have sex with her.

22 . Treat her the same around your friends as you do when your alone.
Don’t, your friends will think you’re a faggot, because chances are you act like a faggot when you’re alone with this bitch.

23 . Look her in the eyes and smile.
Or fuck her from behind and make funny faces.

24 . Let her take as many pictures of you as she wants.
Especially if she’s fucking you while taking pictures. You’ll need them for when you fail and get dumped.

25 . Slow dance with her, even if there isn’t any music playing.
If you’re both slow children who travel in the special bus and wear suspenders and socks up to their knees.

26 . Kiss her in the rain.
Don’t the rain is shit, it’s not romantic, it’s not French and whimsical and magical, it’s retarded and you’ll catch the cold.

27 . If your in love with her . . . tell her.
If you’re in love with her, you lost the game.

I like how initially when I started writing this I was actually trying to give real advice, since if a man does everything on this list he’ll friendzone himself after about 3 days, then after about…well… point 1 really I just started being a complete ass.

This is actually little more than a reflection on how horrifically I treat women.

I love being a complete cunt.

Man Skills Pt.I : How to survive a Tsunami

Recently, during my little excursion to Asia, I found myself being swept up by a Tsunami, while casually holding my breath for 15 minutes straight, keeping an eye out for underwater debris, and using some man’s dead fiancee and children as a human shield, I had quite some time to think about how most men are completely unknowledgeable in even the most simple tasks regarding manliness and being manly as fuck in general.

As such, I’m starting a new segment to my blogs, called “Man Skills,” let’s see if we can teach you festering wank monkeys some practical skills for the real world.

How To Survive a Tsunami.

Tsunamis are nature’s way of testing your metal as a man, you shouldn’t see them as a natural disaster, rather they’re just one of natures many little tests of your fortitude.

Mindset:
In regards to surviving a Tsunami, mindset is everything.
“Tsunami! I piss in a Tsunami!” or “Fuck everybody but myself! I’ll stitch your dead children together with banana skins and muscle tissue and use them as a life raft!” are two very good mindsets to prepare yourself with for dealing with the inevitable Tsunami.

Practical Issues: Most Tsunami prone areas will have an alert system set up to prepare people if the situation should arise, but since Tsunami’s occur usually between every 6 and 7 years and people continue to live in the same fucking area and have to continually rebuild all their shit every time nature has a hissy fit you can’t really rely on the Tsunami warning center as chances are, like everything else in the area, it’s been flattened and is filled with nothing but the bloated rotting corpses and missing peoples from the previous Tsunami.

Know The Signs: Some foreign git driving around in a shitty hatchback shouting “TSUNAMI!!” is usually a pretty good sign that your area is about to get hit by one, but like I said previously, this doesn’t always happen.

Other signs include earth tremors and earth quakes and if you’re in a coastal area you may see the ocean water recede.

People screaming random shit, women breaking down into tears (thus ruining their chances of survival) and children pissing, not only, their own pants, but yours as well, are usually also good indicators.

What To Do:
If you’re on holiday with your family, friends, or loved one then quickly asses the situation, can you gather your wife three children and wheel-chair bound uncle Albert (who when the wife isn’t around you lovingly refer to as “wheels”) with enough time remaining to haul ass into the mainland?

If the answer is no then you must again re-asses (this entire process should take between 0 and 1 seconds) who do you love most? (The answer is not uncle Albert – Trust me, he’s lived long enough.) Do you have time to get this reduced list of people and yourself to safety? If so then gather them quickly and get as far inland as you can before the Tsunami hits.

Women and children have a tendency to cry a lot when they’re faced with their mortality, so it’s generally a good idea to scream at them a lot until they shut the fuck up and let you take hold of the situation as if you were a professional ball grabber on national ball grabbing day in the Olympic ball grabbing arena.

In getting to inland, your attitude should be one of “every man for himself,” steal a car, punch a 10 year old’s ugly little face and steal his shitty rusted bike if you have to, running won’t be fast enough (unless you’re the bionic man, which you aren’t, because I am)

If you can’t get inland then your only option is to get to higher ground, (optimally you would do both). Hills, tall buildings (before going to your Tsunami prone destination you should have found out a little about the structural integrity of their taller buildings – just in case – if you didn’t and you’re sitting in the middle of a Tsunami right now on your shitty “look at me I’m a working professional” laptop reading this while simultaneously pissing all over yourself like a little girl, then I’m afraid to say that now is probably a tad too late). Wide, well-rooted trees are a good bet, but you probably shouldn’t get too hopeful as Tsunami’s are incredibly destructive and will probably just uproot it and smash you and your lovely tree into the wall of the local deli creating some Tsunami post-modernist tourist related art.

Remember, it’s not over just because you survived the first wave, if you managed to hold onto a tree or get into a high rise building, or inland, don’t stop to thank God, because he’ll probably fuck your shit up for irony’s sake by sending a second wave right up your anally retentive little God fearing ass.

Finally: If worst has come to worst and you didn’t manage to hold on, the Tsunami swept you off your feet and nature is raping you like a big burley lumber-jack raping a lost boyscout then don’t panic and don’t struggle, you’ll more than likely die, but there’s a chance that if you don’t struggle you’ll get swept back out to sea alive, where you can sit for weeks, waiting, in the hopes that somebody will rescue you as you slowly devour your own leg.

If you do manage to survive, and find yourself lost at sea, chances are finally in your favour, it’s at this stage that debris and bloated corpses of your loved ones will start popping up all over the show, use what you can find, and fashion a small boat, you can always use your dead fiancee’s skin as a mast! (It’s what she would have wanted.)

Published in: on 19/03/2009 at 1:09 am  Leave a Comment  
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Where Did All The Real Men Go?

Real men are still around but they are few and far between. Real men, are men who uphold real values, like alcoholism, being bitter, closed from their emotions, smoking, being epic and of course, being manly through the medium of all these things, violence and more.

What makes a man manly? To be honest, it can be anything, from a fabled neck breaking, “face-fuck” kick, (See Norris, Chuck), to violently and gruesomely destroying the living dead, (See Campbell, Bruce), to cutting your own arm off in order to live, (Ralston, Aron). Or even just something as simple as fighting mother nature, and God’s many creatures in drunken states (Cash, Johnny).

Manliness comes in many forms, sometimes, it comes from the simple things, in small doses, like smoking a cigarette, or drinking a beer in under 20 seconds, and sometimes it comes in big doses of vulva-kicking episodes of facial rape, like when a man fights a shark, just because he can.

Most of all though, it’s the name that says “manly.”

Names like Chuck, Bruce, Johnny, Aron, Rocky, Hunt, Rambo, Sue, Clint, Russell, “Face-fuck Al”, Tommy Gunn, Apollo Creed, Tom the rapist, and Kurt are all pretty damned manly. So what makes a name manly? Basically, a manly name sounds like a rock, type of metal, or something you use to cut somebody’s head off or shoot somebody with. Names that aren’t manly tend to sound like something two feminists, a member of Coldplay, or Britney Spears would name their adopted kid. Names like Tristan, Berty, Milton, are all pretty weak in terms of manliness.

Names that have connotations to killing or fighting tend to be pretty damned manly too, names like “Ethan Hunt,” which combines the best of both worlds, a short first name that sounds rougher than shaving with blunt rusty knives, and hunt, which implies murderous rage. Which is fucking awesome. If you can imply that you’re going to main and/or kill people, with little more than your name, you know you’re a man.

So now we know what makes a man manly, where did the “manly man” go? It’s simple, they’re a dying breed, being slowly killed off by political correctness, feminist-Neo-Nazis, over-protective mothers, crappy music, being pussy whipped, and just a complete lack of demand for heroes in society.

Political Correctness has killed off the manly man’s ability to make incredibly judgemental, apathetic, and somewhat obnoxious generalisations about religions, metro-sexualism, women, the youth, politicians and pretty much anything we’d like to make obnoxious generalisations about.

The Feminist neo-Nazi, took away the manly man’s greatest tool, his complete disregard for women and their rights. It is this fundamental aspect of being a man that makes them “manly”, it is this pure lack of a desire to care for anybody, or have them care for you, that makes a man. (See Eastwood, Clint)

Metrosexualism has destroyed the manly man’s pleasing aesthetic, a beard that looks like you just shaved with a blunt rock and used gun powder as opposed to the less manly “shaving foam”, right after fighting a bear, and a voice so gritty it could only be emulated by rubbing granite down your throat while you talk.

Children drinking in the streets have ruined the attractiveness of being a whiskey swigging cowboy, since pretty much every 12 year old in this shitty nation already drinks anyway, it’s just not cool anymore. So now real men are forced to drink paint stripper (which probably accounts partially for their decline) or move on to harder things, like heroin (see Scotland).

Over-protective mums raise their little boys to believe that if they’re just themselves women will like them. Which would work if they weren’t blubbering imbeciles who fumbled their words and said ridiculously un-manly things like, “you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You’re like a flower, only infinitely more perfect and sweet smelling.” Real men don’t act themselves in front of women, and they certainly don’t compliment them, they say things like,
“Go away woman,” and “Make me a damned sandwich,” or “Iron my shirt, bitch.”
They don’t pander to the egotistical desires of maniac women who thrive on crushing men in front of their friends just for a cheap laugh. If you’ve ever said something nice to a woman on first meeting them, you’re a fucking pussy and it’s because of people like you that men in general have become so fucking needy and weak. Grow a pair.

Women hate you, because you need them.

Crappy music has led to a decline in the manly man’s urge to kill… You can’t kill without good montage in the background, you want to know that when you kill a man using nothing more than a toothpick and a button, that you have some fucking badass music behind you. Not this fucking rap or metal bullshit. Don’t get me wrong, both can be good, but it’s just not quality killing music. The music you kill to should sound like shitting razors while vomiting anthrax all over the faces of small orphaned children.

One of the major contributing factors to the decline of “manly” men, is the lack of need for stealth/guerrilla warfare, with the creation of new weaponry that means entire cities can be destroyed at the push of a button and the turn of a key…

Remember when war was manly? When men shot out 16 rounds of lead into each other in the name of protecting their women and homeland from the enemy…

Or when they fought in a cloud of tear gas, bleeding from their pours, with people of different nations, using nothing but their fists…

We need another fucking war… But a real one, with some proper heroic “defending my homeland and family” man fighting.

Another major contributing factor, around all the others pivot around, is nut job men disregarding all that is manly in the name of peace…

First off, if you disregard man laws, you’re demoted to fucking man bitch. As such, Ghandi is a man bitch. No argument, no discussion, he just is, as decided in the court of man law held by the Miserable Bastard on this day.

Secondly, peace is for fucking queer bait Nancy boys.

Real men kill each other.

War is manly.

End of story.

Like I’ve said before, Ghandi was a pussy and probably a communist. Other weak men include but are not limited to Paul McCartney, Prince Harry, any man who’s liberal about anything.