The Canadian Federal election takes place tomorrow, and it's a neck-and-neck dogfight between Liberal Mark Carney, an Oxford-educated economist, and Conservative Pierre Poilievre, a career politician and skilled alliterator.
Poilievre has ably demonstrated his alliteration skills since becoming leader of the Conservatives. Like a sweet-talking Southern preacher-man, he has larded his lingo with consecutive consonants, talking about "technology, not taxes" and "Common Sense Conservatives." Alliteration serves as a superb way to speed up a speech and get people stirred up at the same time. Even Poilievre's name itself is alliterative, with its PP combo. Poilievre has also expanded his use of literary devices into the realm of rhyme, saying Conservatives will "Axe the Tax," referring to either Justin Trudeau's carbon tax or any given tax a potential conservative voter dislikes. When Mark Carney replaced Justin Trudeau as Liberal leader just over a month ago, Poilievre threw more alliterative shade leftward, dubbing the new Prime Minister "Carbon Tax Carney" (despite the fact that Carney wants to move past a carbon tax) and declaring he was "Just Like Justin."
Mark Carney, by contrast, embodies assonance. Assonance involves repeating vowel sounds in the stressed syllables of consecutive words. The name "Mark Carney" itself exemplifies this literary device in the doubled -ar sections of the first and last names. Assonance serves to slow down speech or writing, creating a more deliberate rhythm. This resonates with Carney's approach of applying measured deliberation and thought to issues and policies, using evidence and reason to arrive at sound conclusions.
Thus, on account of literary devices alone, we the Ewedrooper staff must lend our endorsement to Mark Carney in the Canadian federal election. Sound economic reasoning should prevail over sloganeering word games. Apparently, the Canadian populace agrees, as Carney currently holds a narrow lead in the polls. Accordingly, CBC's statisticians have given Carney a 69% probability of winning a majority. Poilievre, meanwhile, has a 10% chance of winning a minority and just a 1% chance of winning a majority—though polls have been known to be wildly incorrect of late (possibly due to right-wing types taking sadistic pleasure in lying to pollsters). (For up-to-date polling and probabilities, click here)
Will Poilievre snatch victory from the jaws of defeat and keep up the carnival barker routine? If he can, Poilievre will ensure that the true carny becomes Prime Minister of Canada.
In mere hours, the Liberal Party of Canada will select its new leader and, with that, the new Prime Minister of Canada. This means that current Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, who announced his resignation back in January, will be leaving the role of leader for good.
Alberta voters almost unanimously spewed vitriol at Trudeau throughout the majority of his time as Prime Minister. Surprisingly, though, as the end nears, many Albertans—Conservatives included—are sad to see him go.
"If I'm being honest," said Randy Scruggs, a rig-worker from Fort McMurray, "I don't exactly like my life. That was true during Trudeau's reign, but also before. It was kind of cathartic to kick Justin around on Facebook, but now I won't have that."
"Quite frankly," said Cammy Carlyle, a homemaker from Chestermere, "I feel stifled in my trad-wife role for my overbearing husband. Making fun of Justin Trudeau's masculinity was always a means of coping. It was the one thing that brought my husband and me together."
"Look," said Leonard Starkey, a pressurized safety valve repairman from Grande Prairie. "I've made some terrible decisions in my life, from intoxicant abuse to gambling debts to credit card over-usage. But Justin Trudeau always gave me a target towards which I could redirect my rage away from myself."
With Trudeau gone, the presumptive Liberal-leadership winner Mark Carney will take the reins as Prime Minister. Carney will likely call a spring election, in which Albertan-born Conservative candidate Pierre Poilievre would be a favorite to win, given his strong polling numbers.
So how do these Albertans feel about the possibility of not just one but two new Prime Ministers in 2025?
"I kind of envy Justin," Ms. Carlyle mused. "He gets to move on, but I'm going to stay right where I am and my life's going to be just as unfulfilling, whether it's Carney or Poilievre in power."
"Sure," Mr. Starkey added, "in a year I'll be blaming Poilievre for everything that's wrong with my life. But with Trudeau, it was just nice to be able to blame someone from Quebec."
"And since we're being honest," Mr. Scruggs finished, "I must confess that if I was allowed to make love to a man, it would be Justin Trudeau."
Image credit: Frank Schwichtenberg, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
Around 6:05 p.m. EST on July 13, 2024, Donald Trump took the stage at a rally in Pennsylvania to address his loyal followers. At 6:11 p.m. EST, shots rang out, and the former president ducked for cover. Within seconds, the shooter was neutralized—that is, shot dead—by Secret Service personnel, and a blood-streaked Trump was whisked off the stage. This grisly and chaotic scene immediately raised the question of why?
J.D. Vance had the answer. Vance is, of course, a Republican senator who, before his political career, rose from a quaint upbringing in an Appalachian family and made his way through to Yale Law School. This provided the raw material for the narrative that he wove in his bestselling memoir, Hillbilly Elegy, which catapulted him to fame and political office. At the time of the shooting, Vance was the presumptive Vice Presidential running mate for Trump in the 2024 election. At 6:20 p.m. EST, less than ten minutes after the shots were fired, Vance tweeted (or rather Xed) the following:
Today is not just some isolated incident. The central premise of the Biden campaign is that President Donald Trump is an authoritarian fascist who must be stopped at all costs. That rhetoric led directly to President Trump’s attempted assassination.
Drawing on the full horsepower of his Yale Law intellect, Vance arrived at some preternaturally decisive conclusions well before investigators could. Firstly, the shooter was a leftist. Secondly, Democrats have erroneously associated fascism with Trump. The implied corollary is that leftist Democrats, with their willingness to engage in violence and propound mistruths, are the real fascists. Thirdly, and most damningly, Democrats caused the shooting.
On July 14, 2024, the FBI reported that the shooter, one Thomas Matthew Crooks, was a registered Republican. Crooks had, however, also donated a small amount to progressive causes after Biden’s 2020 election win. Crooks’ politics, then, would appear to be ambivalent and inconclusive; if anything, the registered-Republican status would suggest he skewed rightward. Whatever the case, it seems difficult to say that anyone with that rare level of derangement that prompts them to attempt an assassination on a political figure could be representative of wide swaths of political opinions, either Republican or Democrat or whatever.
But Vance has made that leap and has decided that such deranged behavior is representative of, coincidentally, his diametric political opponents. His central premise deals in the kind of broad and polemical associations Vance has accused the Biden administration of promulgating. Moreover, Vance was able to tender this thesis in the face of a complete lack of evidence about the perpetrator of the attack against Trump.
Thus, we must conclude that Vance’s intelligence is a chimera. True, he may possess the brain power and wherewithal to get into and graduate from Yale Law School, and he may have the charm and connections to publish a best-selling book. But outside of those domains, he is a moron. Vance is one among the staggeringly large number of brainy, well-educated people in America who choose to employ their cerebral powers not to come to equitable, evidence-based solutions, but rather to rationalize their own entrenched worldviews. And in Vance’s case, his personal worldview is corroded by conspiracy theories, religion, and polemical politics (all of these elements likely cross-pollinating into some vague eschatological possibility of religio-political deliverance in the near future). Evidently, Vance is still thinking in hillbilly terms, like a discouraging proportion of Americans—most notably, the Republicans. His intellect ultimately functions as little more than a turbocharger for his inveterate hillbilly sensibilities.
Ergo, J.D. Vance has established himself as a hillbilly of the highest and most demented order. And now, as of around 3 p.m. EST today, Vance has been named Trump’s vice presidential nominee. Given the fact that Trump’s ability to stand up from a bullet wound will likely cement his bid for the presidency, this Uber-hillbilly Vice President Vance will be just a heartbeat away from leading the free world.
A series of holographic recordings saved to the memory system of a decommissioned astromech droid stored in the databanks of the Tatooine archives has revealed that Benjamin Kenobi, a.k.a. Obi Wan Kenobi, was a slave owner. The messages feature Kenobi personally addressing slaves of near-Human Kiffu background, two female and one male.
Reaction throughout the Star Wars fandom has been mixed.
"It's just devastating," said Kaley Worthington of Albany, New York, "to know that someone you respected so much participated in a system that deprived people of their most basic right—their very freedom. It's almost as bad as The Last Jedi."
In this spirit, concerned fans have demanded the removal of Obi Wan statuettes and action figures from store shelves. Previous movements for a life size statue of Obi Wan at the summit of Scotland's tallest mountain, Ben Nevis, have been retracted and/or cancelled indefinitely.
Others have been outraged for alternative reasons.
"This is history," said Scott Harkowski, a fan from St. Louis, Missouri. "You can't just cover it up or knock it down or ban it from stores. Slavery was real. So was Obi Wan Kenobi. It's unfortunate the two combined, but we can't just erase them from the past, present, and future."
"It was a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away," said Chris Hanover, an Obi Wan cosplayer from Harlan, Kentucky. "A different time and a different place. We can't judge Ben Kenobi by our present standards. Love the Jedi for what he did, even if you can't love the man."
"Personally, I don't see what's so bad about what he did," said Jebediah Crenshaw of Tupelo, Mississippi. "The real injustice is that a man can't own another man anymore. A man's got a right to his property. Many great rebels fought for that right, and Jedis too. If we forget about Obi Wan, we forget about a greater rebellion and a greater cause."
It was recently reported that pornographic actor Ron Jeremy will be declared incompetent to stand trail for multiple counts of sexual assault on the grounds that he suffers from "dementia." While this determination has been agreed upon by mental health experts for both the defense and prosecution, it is a decision no doubt highly unsatisfying for his victims.
Jeremy faces a dozen counts of forcible rape, seven counts of forcible oral copulation, six counts of sexual battery by restraint, four counts of sexual penetration by a foreign object, and two counts of sexual penetration of an unconscious or asleep person. He also faces one count of committing a lewd act on a minor with reference to an accusation that he sexually assaulted a 15-year-old girl in 2004.
One of his accusers is Lianne Young. A former porn performer herself, Young claims that Jeremy sexually assaulted her in a packed nightclub back in 2000.
The fact that Jeremy might not stand trial for this alleged sexual assault and all the others has left Young dispirited. She likely speaks for the other accusers in reporting that she felt "kind of numb" upon hearing the experts' determination.
"It's going to come down to public opinion now," Young has been quoted as saying, "and public opinion has looked at Ron like a god."
We at Ewedrooper would like to reassure Ms. Young that Ron Jeremy is not nearly as exalted in public opinion as she may fear. In fact, we'd like to go on record as saying that we see Ron Jeremy as a profoundly desperate, deeply one-dimensional being without a shred of ability beyond that involved in pushing his cartoonishly disproportionate member into women paid to bear his onslaughts. He is not funny, and he's not charming. He never has been. He is less talented than Tommy Wiseau. He possesses less artistry than the Insane Clown Posse. He has as much charisma as a small-town, low-prole uncle.
Yet his self-absorption is, for some reason, nonpareil. Of course, one would need to be narcissistic beyond comprehension to have had so many paid sex-partners in proportion to loving ones and still register self-worth. Ron Jeremy is among the most shameless of self-promoters. In this way, his whole celebrity has been one big public act of auto-fellatio—an act he has performed on camera, for some deranged reason. That bears repeating: this is a man who has sucked dick on camera for money. It would have actually been much less trashy had the dick not been his own. All Ron Jeremy's ever really had is the genetic lottery-win that is his endowment. It only served him well because he failed as a conventional actor. And his is not even a particularly aesthetically pleasing male organ. Author Chuck Palahniuk once described it as "a long pencil dick," and he's bang-on in his assessment. Ron Jeremy's penis doesn't possess the width to have been convincingly made in the image of God.
If Ron Jeremy is a god, he's Priapus, who was held in contempt for his outsized member. The Romans mocked Priapus, and mockery is all we should have ever offered Ron Jeremy. Truth be told, Ron Jeremy is more reminiscent of a theriomorphic nature spirit, akin perhaps to something like a satyr. Never satiated, and, given his squab, hirsute body-type and bestial face, unlikely to satisfy anyone not paid to fake it, he should be cast off into the wilderness where he truly belongs. It's more likely he'll be sent to a state asylum, where he can spend the rest of his days attempting auto-fellatio in a straightjacket.
If Ron Jeremy does indeed have dementia, it's most probably a result of all the vessels in his brain that went underused due the inordinate amounts of blood required to hoist his phallus. But dementia's no reason to absolve him of his alleged crimes. There was a time when sex offenders used to get chemically castrated, and it's too bad that California couldn't bust out that old chestnut for Mr. Jeremy's case. But of course, California can't even try him, so there's no chance here for any justice.
Nonetheless, you should rest assured, Lianne Young, that at least some of the public supports you. We here at Ewedrooper acknowledge and validate your victimhood. We believe you, just as we believe all of Ron Jeremy's accusers. Ron Jeremy used his protected status in his industry to make himself untouchable while touching pretty much whomever he wanted, following the playbook of so many other #MeToo moguls to a T. We interpret his recourse to dementia as an admission of guilt. While we may not have so much as the veneer of a respectable website, we are wholly earnest in this sentiment. As such, we think a major injustice is being done to you and the other accusers.
And we're not the only ones. While frat-boy and knuckle-tattoo types may see Jeremy as some sort of paragon or hero, most with a mental age above 18 will see through him to the bare, malignant lust that constitutes his core. The guy is Harvey Weinstein on Caverject.
Photo Credit: Section taken from www.lukeisback.com, CC BY-SA 2.5 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5>, via Wikimedia Commons
A mole rat based in Langley is British Columbia's newest millionaire, winning the jackpot in last Saturday's Lotto Max draw.
The first thing the mole rat plans to do with her $1 million prize is take a trip to Disneyland.
"I've always wanted to go," said the mole rat in a press release from BC Lottos. "I'm taking all my children and grandchildren."
The mole rat obtained her winning ticket at a Circle-K confectionary adjacent to which she lives. The win is all the more inspiring in that the mole rat is blind. She has never seen light or dark.
"I was getting bored sitting around talking about the weather," the blind mole rat said. "This is my deliverance."
Photo Credit: Uploaded by Jedimentat44 on flickr., CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
Hockey Canada has been recently wracked with scandal on account of allegations regarding group sexual assaults. Approximately a week ago, the organization opened an investigation into an alleged assault on a woman by members of the 2018 World Junior national team in London, Ontario. More recently, Hockey Canada has begun dealing with other group assault allegations involving the 2003 World Junior team. Canadian hockey fans, worshippers of the great god Puck, have faced nothing less than a disruption of the psyche as a result.
Most pronouncedly, they've been confronted with harrowing questions. What members of the 2018 and 2003 junior teams participated in the assaults? What did any given member of the team do to the women involved? In the absence of details, the imagination runs wild.
In 2003, did Carlo Colaiacovo drive hard into the woman, as if she were an opposing defender in the corner? Did Jordin Tootoo gently grip the woman's ankle in his fist? Was Marc-Andre Fleury tender and loving with his thrusts? Did Scottie Upshall place kisses on the woman's mouth? Did Joffrey Lupul tongue the woman's aureole? Did Kyle Wellwood hike up her thighs? Did Matthew Stajan hold the woman's leg, offering Colaiacovo a more fulsome ingress?
Cale Makar
In 2003, did Sam Steel pull up mounds of flesh from the woman's buttocks? Did Drake Batherson heft her breasts as if adjudging a cantaloupe's ripeness? Did Cale Makar rear back more and more with each thrust, gradually building to a manic pace and mindbending climax?
More broadly, is there some kind of ritual group sex involved in representing Canada as a young male hockey player?
Obviously, Hockey Canada has spent a lot of time, effort, and tax-payer money to cover up these details, leaving our burning questions unanswered. And while the answer may be "yes" to many or all of the aforementioned questions, we have to look at the imbroglio through a wider lens, namely that of Canadian majoritarian culture and the kinds of impulses it tacitly sanctions.
Yes, the players who participated in the assaults are responsible for their actions. But we must ask: were they acting/assaulting as a function of a greater overarching impetus? Could it be that each thrust was actually authored by a system of males (and maleness) that must protect its own in the process of protecting a sport driven by male conquest? Most likely. Could it be that the players on the 2003 and 2018 teams were pawns, thrusting headlong simply on account of the momentum generated by a legacy—a lineage—of Canadian hockey patriarchs? It would seem that these young boys enacted a "frat-house mentality" fostered and nurtured by hoary old hockey men bent on preserving the rapacious spirit of their glory days. All told, Canada's hockey heads have almost become like a bunch of heterosexual Catholic priests.
Because in Canada, hockey itself is maleness (at least in conservative quarters). To be male at the highest level in the Great White North is to penetrate women in serial among other men. So yes, the individual players involved do need to be held accountable, but remember that every thrust they took upon the victim was ultimately enabled and compelled by an all-seeing, overarching elderly male gaze. The problem is not just the assault, but more than that the ubiquitous ho-hoing and snickering and arm-nudging with respect to this kind of ferociously homosocial sexuality preferred by hockey players, and the fact that it will go on as long as Canadian boys and men lace up the skates.
No matter who did what, don't expect any substantive punishments for the players, particularly not for the 2018 team. After all, these boy-men aren't people like you, dear reader, or your present author. Many of these men have gone onto NHL careers, and hence they are assets with exorbitant contracts, not to mention advertising deals. There is a lot of money bound up in each of these automatons, thereby precluding them from receiving the kinds of life-altering punishments that would meet your average non-hockey playing sex offender.
Photo Credit: Quintin Soloviev, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
Canadian Conservative politician Pierre Poilievre is a promising Prime Ministerial hopeful and a master debater, but did you know that he is also an accomplished actor?
Poilievre auditioned for a number of film roles in the early to mid 2000s as his political career was on the rise. Most notably, he auditioned for the 2010 remake of I Spit on Your Grave, the notorious 1978 rape-revenge epic.
Poilievre specifically tried for the role of Sheriff Storch, the law officer to whom the victim, Jennifer, appeals after she is harassed by four local Republicans. When Storch finds drugs and alcohol at Jennifer's cabin, he casts doubt on her story. When the four other Republicans return to the cabin (spoiler alert), Storch joins them in sexually assaulting Jennifer. Jennifer spends the latter portion of the film taking revenge on her rapists, finishing up with Sheriff Storch.
After initial auditions, Poilievre pinned down the Storch role.
"Pierre had an attack-dog viciousness that brought a verity to the character," said director Steven R. Monroe. "He projected authority via volatility."
Unfortunately, Poilievre had to be replaced for the part by Welsh actor Andrew Howard. When Poilievre arrived in Louisiana for principal photography, he expressed discontent with the direction of the script.
"He wanted to change the ending," Monroe reported. "He insisted that the Sheriff should survive and kill the victim and go on with his family life. That was the only morally viable ending, in Pierre's view."
Even though it didn't work out for Poilievre as an actor, true conservatives hope he can win the role of Prime Minister so he can bring his rabid and rapacious reactionary values to Canada's highest office.
Photo Credit: Manning Centre c/o: Jake Wright, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
Robert Thurston Thomas was arrested last Saturday at Fort Walton Beach in Florida after attempting to solicit sex from a manatee in broad daylight.
Fort Walton Beach Police responded to reports of a heavily intoxicated man causing a disturbance on a public beach in John Beasley Park in the mid-morning. Eye witnesses claim that Thomas, age 51, was throwing hundred-dollar bills at a beached manatee and loudly describing sexual acts he wanted the animal to perform upon him. When police found Thomas, a resident of nearby Destin, he had removed his beach shorts and was attempting to mount the male manatee.
Officers pulled Thomas off the manatee and arrested him. Upon confiscating Thomas's vehicle, they found a cache of crystal meth in the backseat with a street value of approximately $10000. Thomas will appear in Okaloosa County courthouse later this week facing charges of public intoxication and drug possession.
Marine biologists from Northwest Florida State College who tended to the manatee deemed it to be startled but otherwise unharmed. The manatee has since been released back into the waters, with hopes that this gentle sea creature will never again encounter the wilds of the Florida panhandle.
We’re all very familiar with coitus interruptus, a zestful finale to lovemaking and a semi-effective form of birth control. But what you may not know is that there's an unending supply of interruptus types out there to be explored. So pull yourself out of whatever you’re doing and let us present to you just a few of the more unsung interruptuses.
Calculus interruptus: You’ve been accepted to engineering physics, but at the last minute you opt for the eminently more useful English literature degree instead. Now look where you work.
Cunnilingus interruptus: The point when your brain and tongue are too tired to go on and you give up, accepting that you just can't solve nature’s mutilated chessboard.
Detritus interruptus: Jazz brunch on the lido deck has been fabulous, but you elect to take a siesta while your luxury cruise circumnavigates the Pacific trash vortex.
Asparagus interruptus: Your boy scarfs down bushel after bushel of asparagus, and when he pisses, life in the frat house just grinds to a halt.
Krampus interruptus: In the midst of Christmas Eve lovemaking, your significant other slides into a goat mask and summons the alpine yuletide demi-demon.
Coronavirus interruptus: When that COVID-19 you thought you had turns out to be full-on Ebola and you just disintegrate. That’s it. You’re done.
Walrus interruptus: When you’re in the dog park with your pet walrus and animal control officers inform you that it is both unlawful and dangerous to be in possession of a 400-pound undomesticated marine mammal.
Michaelangelo's Bacchus
Dionysus interruptus: That awkward moment when you’ve been drinking wine and making frenzied love to strangers for weeks beyond the solstice and the god Bacchus himself appears before you and tells you to “cool your jets, bro.”
Thesaurus interruptus: When you can’t find a flattering synonym for “psychotic,” so you take your katana to your trusty Roget’s.
Hiatus interruptus: You’ve wasted three minutes of your life reading this asinine listicle, now get back to filing those TPS reports or whatever demeaning task qualifies as your “work.”
(This article was deemed unfit to print by Medium.com)
As a full-time Medium contributor whose writing goes perpetually unpaid, it goes without saying that I don’t date a lot of women. And so, when my writing hand is exhausted at the conclusion of a freshly-minted think-piece, its day’s work isn’t necessarily done. Suffice it to say, your author is well-versed in matters autoerotic, and I have an extensive pseudo-sex life. And as I self-gratify, I’m not averse to a little day-dreaming. I’m not talking about orgiastic imaginings, though — porn and DeviantArt take care of that. I’m referring instead to recurrent speculations about what my masturbation might imply.
One of the most recurrent runs as follows: What if all this pseudo-sex I’ve been having with my hand was for real? I mean to say, what if my masturbatory life was a sex life? What kind of life would that be? This is a thought experiment worth spooling out.
The first and most rudimentary concern involves frequency. I engage in Onanism four times a week on average, at least according to the statistics I keep (as one must). This is not an especially ambitious masturbatory schedule, especially given the availability of internet nudes, though it is reasonably prolific, especially if it were actual sex. I am making time to make love more than half the days in a week. Were it real, this suggests an efficiency with scheduling, as well as a deep care and attention for the needs of my partner and, beyond that, my relationship(s). If you can get intimate with your significant other four times in a week with consistency, you are proceeding at an admirable, or even enviable, clip. But of course, the nature of masturbatory fantasy, which is one of plurality over monogamy, obviates this speculation.
But this constant stream of women goes beyond sex, and it must also go beyond word-of-mouth. There are two explanatory possibilities here. The first is the cynical one, which suggests that I am paying these women. These four encounters per week, then, are just acts of prostitution. (Why else would hardened porn-stars be in conversation with European models who might not even speak fluent English?) The constant stream of women would suggest that I have some kind of subscriber’s rate with the escort service in question. It would also have to be the case that I lived in a much bigger, much more cosmopolitan city than the medium-sized, working-class burg where I currently dwell. My present Podunk town would not be able to keep 200+ high-class prostitutes employed in view of its small population and stagnant economic growth. Moreover, such a scenario would mean I live in a state where prostitution is legal; anywhere else, the constant stream of women into the house of an effectively unemployed man would raise questions among neighbors, and would have surely drawn police attention by now. I don’t especially like the prostitution possibility, as it figures me as a john of the most superlative order.
The second and more appealing possibility is that I am rich, famous, and handsome, or at least any two of the three. As such, women — or more accurately groupies — are showing up just to sport with a man of eminence. Perhaps in this alternative world I’ve made a name for myself as a writer (though I find that to be so wild a fantasy that it’s almost beyond imagining; I don’t think of the category “famous writer” as groupie-bait, nor do I imagine “success” for a writer entailing any more than bare subsistence). Perhaps I am helping the women forward their career, though I can’t conceive how a Medium writer could help a porn star or a European model in their line of business. If I’ve convinced these women I can help them, then it’s making for a rather misbegotten liaison, all told.
I prefer to imagine that perhaps I am simply famous for being an expert lover. I’m so good, in fact, that the women don’t mind that I live with my parents in my mid-thirties, and that we can only consort while my elderly mother and father are out of the house or sound asleep. With this “expert lover” sub-possibility, some further potential entailments arise. Perhaps my appeal is attributable to an expertise at cunnilingus, though I must say, I don’t spend any part of my masturbatory routine acting this out — again, I’m not schizophrenic. There also arises the matter of physical endowments. Perhaps, in this fantasy-world-made-real, I am exceedingly well-endowed. Perhaps I’m super-fit. But this immediately prompts more vexing metaphysical questions as to the parameters of my thought experiment: what exactly transfers over from fantasy to reality or vice-versa in this particular hypothetical excursion? Perhaps, if the gross material parameters of my body cannot change, then all the women pictured are just a certain percentage smaller in whole or in part when they cross over the threshold to reality. Maybe the whole world shrinks relative to me, making me comparably well-hung. Undeniably, though, in this expert-lover scenario, what I offer is exactly what is desired by hundreds of women (of two rigidly fixed body types). I represent some ineffable golden-mean, Goldilocks configuration of physicality, personality, and sexual performance that allows the women and the girls to see past the extra-baggage on my body and the paucity of hair on my scalp.
All that aside, one thing is for certain: I’m likely very financially well-endowed in this masturbatory-cum-real life. This suggests that my masturbatory fantasies are, more broadly speaking, class fantasies. I am as much fantasizing about independent wealth as I am about casual sex.
No matter what the parameters of the scenario are, the women involved are all getting something from me, either in the form of direct payment or some other rub, either sexually or career-related, from their inclusion in my life, however brief it may be. Perhaps they fancy they are becoming more sophisticated, having sex with a pseudo-intellectual. If they have a problem with my promiscuity, not one of them has ever mentioned it. No one has ever complained of a disease.
I offer these reflections such that you, the Medium reader, might garner some insights into your own masturbatory life and the economies and improbabilities that inform it. I encourage you to ask yourself “what if my own masturbatory life was a real sex life?” and then to ponder as I have. It is my hope you will self-evaluate as you self-gratify, always scrutinizing your methods, materials, and mental imagery, and always working toward a more viable masturbatory life. “Realizability,” I think, is always a noble aim and an apt guiding principle for Onanistic fantasy. There should always be a goal of realizing fantasy. By that I do not mean requesting perverted shit of real-life lovers or paying dozens of prostitutes to do same. Rather, I’m referring to making masturbatory reverie more real.
Do you, for instance, frantically jerk off while rifling through photo after photo, each one of a different woman in full lordosis? If so, your masturbatory life might be strongly influenced by a harem fantasy. I was once like you. But I urge you to reevaluate with regard to real-world carryover. Having so many women available to gratify your sexual impulses in a split-second is, ultimately, coming from a very dark place. At best, your real-world equivalent is some kind of deeply disturbing R. Kelly scenario where you’ve manipulated vulnerable women — again, at best. If this describes your routine, you might considering taking what’s called a “fidelity vow” in your masturbatory life. This involves only jacking off to photos and videos of the same porn starlet and/or tasteful nude for a fixed or unfixed period of weeks or months. This simulates a real-world relationship, at least with respect to learning how to get off on rote sameness.
And speaking of real-world relationships, where do those fit into this thought experiment of our fantasies turning into reality? If masturbation is now real, are intimate encounters with real women now masturbatory? I can only speak from limited sexual experience myself, but a lot of the time it sure feels that way.
But most of us for most of the time will only have our fantasy life, and that just might be enough. What I hope to have reinforced here is the notion that a masturbatory life is as important as a sex-life. Certainly we are well aware of this in a post-Incel era, where we know from the well-publicized rantings of internet troglodytes that there are entire castes of males who will never have sex (and with good cause!). Whether sexually experienced or not, rest assured that your would-be sex life is a fingerprint unique to you — a singular and formative set of experiences that says a lot about who you are and who you might have wanted to become. Self-styled sexual encounters with computer screens are nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, by totaling up all your pseudo-penetrations, you’d most certainly arrive at an illuminating and likely dizzying figure. It’s a number that probably rivals that of a John Holmes or a Rocco Siffredi in sheer volume of encounters. And perhaps it’s some consolation to know that, relative to the many great scenes of these porno pacesetters, our masturbatory one-offs were hardly any more intimate.
***
Image credit: the above image is a composite of several photographs. Clockwise from the top left, credits go to: Illusive Photography from 96 Miles Away from my Hometown, USA, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons; Patrick Colgan, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons; mreraser, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons; Evill Jack, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons; Walter, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons; John Ramspott, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons; Bernard DUPONT, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons; and Douglas Lally, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons.
An anonymous waitress has gone viral on the internet after telling a story about a customer who pretended to give her a big tip only to impress his date.
According to the waitress, the gentleman made quite a display about giving her a $100 tip, only to come back into the restaurant afterward to amend the gratuity to $20, brashly explaining, without shame, that he had only pretended to tip $100 in order to impress his date.
The bill itself had been $289, meaning that the final $20 amounted to a measly 6.9% tip—cheap by any standards.
When the gentleman left, the waitress realized he hadn’t signed the new receipt. She followed him out onto the street where she asked him to sign the new receipt, stating that he had altered the original tip loudly enough that his date could hear.
The internet, of course, applauded the waitress’ takedown of this manipulative Casanova, unanimously agreeing that she had done his date a favor.
But, as usual, the internet is wrong.
See, I happen to be that manipulative Casanova. It’s literally me, the author of this article. And the “date” whom I took out for a $289 meal was actually a prostitute (who also cost me $289, incidentally), and everything that the waitress witnessed was part of an elaborately staged role play, the ultimate telos of which was the fulfilment of a masochistic sexual fantasy wherein I am humiliated and then punished for being a naughty and dishonest little piglet who isn’t allowed to squeal even when Mommy steps on his little curly with her red pointy boots.
Or at least that’s the gist of it. It’s actually much more elaborate than that. But I won’t bore you with irrelevant details about The Barnyard because Mommy doesn’t like it when Piglet tells people about The Barnyard.
The point is, you can’t always believe what you read online. I’m happy that the waitress got some viral fame from all this, and I hope that fame makes up for my meagre tip. But it’s important to always remind yourself, when judging someone, that maybe you don’t have the full story. Maybe you're getting just the tip of the iceberg. Maybe that anonymous asshole you hate so much is actually just a regular person who is trying their best to meet their needs in a world that could never possibly fulfill their true passions.
***
Elton Brawn has three children from four different women: among the mothers are Siamese twins joined at the womb.
A man in Nashville has been arrested after he swung a brimming colostomy bag at two police officers. The officers, who both ended up covered in his feces, had been called after the man, drunk, had refused to leave a bar.
The man also reportedly had Confederate and Nazi imagery tattooed onto his face and scalp, which came as a surprise to literally no one. Confederate flags and swastikas accessorize well with colostomy bags. Anti-racism activists were quick to point out that had a black man swung a bag full of his own shit at the cops, he would have been shot dead on the spot.
The accused, Nicholas Newhart, and his colostomy bag (right). (Nashville Metro Police Department)
Some commentators even went so far as to assert that an aggressor who swings a full colostomy bag at people like a chain mace should be shot dead by police. It was even suggested that the two officers—who, again, did get covered in feces, during a pandemic no less—should maybe be disciplined for not shooting the man.
"It's really gross," one internet commentator opined. "You can't have people flinging shit at each other during a pandemic. That man deserves to die."
(Yes, that commentator is me.)
Meanwhile, white supremacist groups have remained awkwardly silent regarding the attack. One can surmise that having one of their own staggering around fuckhead-drunk and hurling feces at law enforcement like some kind of frightened monkey might not fully jibe with their notion that whites are somehow superior human beings.
But white supremacists inclined to look on the bright side might take some solace it this: perhaps only a Confederate Nazi would have the pluck and resourcefulness to wield a colostomy bag as a weapon. Talk about intestinal fortitude.
***
Elton Brawn is a writer who gets women. Like, a lot of women.
My
friend loves Mia Khalifa. He's got a wife and kids, but he's always
talking about Mia Khalifa. He says he barely ever watches porn, but
when he does, it's most always Mia Khalifa. He says that Mia Khalifa
is the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, save for his wife. He
says Mia Khalifa seems like she has a great personality, too. She
always looks so happy. She has a lovely smile. Her bosom is
maternally massive, and yet each breast is preternaturally spherical.
My
friend says it doesn't matter that Mia Khalifa is Muslim. He says
that sex is about bringing people together, and that Mia Khalifa is
breaking down barriers with her popularity. He says that everyone
must make a living and that only God can judge her. Mia Khalifa is
doing much more good than harm, my friend says. She will bridge the
cultural gap.
I'm
terminally single, so I'm not going to string you along and try to
convince you that I don't jack off and that I don't watch porn. I do
and I do. But I have yet to watch a Mia Khalifa video, let alone jack
off to it. I truly want to, though. But I've been so cavalier with my
carnal impulses, I've never been able to fit her into the rotation.
Mia Khalifa was not made to be taken by rote, though. A part of me
wants to schedule a Mia Khalifa video—to designate a solid hour of
Onanism to her—but that would kill the spontaneity, I
would think.
Mia
Khalifa is my summum bonum. Mia Khalifa is my masturbatory mountain
top. She is what I aspire to. And so I have to learn her. I have to
earn her. How do I know this? Because, at present, I find her a bit
too strabysmic to be classically attractive.
In
the meantime, I toil away with the amateur section of PornHub, the
tasteful nudes on DeviantArt. I stay home gratifying myself to lesser
porn starlets with bated breath. One day, I'll be worthy. One day,
I'll see her beauty. When I am ready, Mia Khalifa will be there brandishing her over-eager smile in my algorithmically suggested thumbnails, waiting to guide me toward my auto-erotic
self-actualization.
But
maybe only once I'm married with kids.
***
Image Credit: Hey B*tch! Highlights, CC BY 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
A man in a MAGA hat physically accosted a family of Mexican immigrants at an emergency room in Laredo, Texas, last Wednesday.
Wilson Statum Watson is charged with two counts of assault and one count of violating parole for his attack on Dr. Rodrigo Curbelo and his daughter Josefina.
Watson had arrived at the Laredo Medical Center complaining of shortness of breath and coughing fits. When ER doctors initiated COVID-19 protocols, Watson grew agitated and began verbally accosting the medical staff, insisting that the pandemic was a hoax.
When nurses and orderlies tried to restrain Watson, he broke away and ran haphazardly through the hospital. Witnesses report that he was screaming "COVID is a hoax!"
Watson wound up in the hospital cafeteria, where Dr. Curbelo was eating lunch with his wife and children. When Curbelo attempted to ease the tensions, Watson promptly put him in a rear naked choke. When Curbelo's wife intervened, Watson applied the chokehold to Curbelo's fifteen-year-old daughter Josefina.
As he choked out the girl, Watson claimed that COVID was "made in a lab in Mexico."
Dr. Curbelo eventually wrestled Watson off his daughter and restrained him until security arrived.
Watson, currently on parole for illegal gun possession, was placed under arrest by the Webb County Sheriff's Department. He will appear before a judge when and if he recovers from COVID-19, for which he was indeed positive. Dr. Curbelo and his daughter suffered only minor injuries, though they are currently isolating due to COVID protocols and will have to do so through Christmas.
So while the 2020 Election may have knocked the wind out the Donald Trump presidency, the spirit of Trumpism lives on.
Big Swampy County in the Florida Panhandle underwent a massive political facelift in the 2020 General Election. The primarily rural county, which borders Alabama, voted 99% Republican in the 2016 election. In 2020, however, it went 100% Democrat.
The reason? It must have been something in the water.
No, really. It was something in the water.
In 2017, a team of chemists, chemical engineers, and neuroscientists from a host of world-class Panhandle universities embarked upon an ambitious initiative in Big Swampy County. In cooperation with the Big Swampy Department of Public Works, the Florida Public Service Commission, and the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA), the research team began putting small doses of olanzapine in the Big Swampy water supply. Olanzapine is an anti-psychotic.
Apparently, a small amount of psychiatric medication can go a long way. The across-the-board Republican voting, from President to District Court of Appeal to Sheriff to Dog Catcher, flipped over to Democrat in just one election cycle.
"We're astounded by the results," said Andreas Nabovsky, head of applied neurochemical engineering at Florida Pacific University, and leader of the research team. "And we're very pleased, as well. With the advent of Democratic leadership, we've already been able to secure several future projects of this nature in other, larger backwater jurisdictions."
Tampa Bay, Tallahassee, Gainesville, and Orlando have all expressed interest in Nabovsky's research. So too has the incoming Biden administration.
"It's neurochemical engineering, technically speaking," Nabovsky went on to say. "But we jokingly call it 'civil engineering' because it's civilizing a lot of people in the places that need it most."
We wish you a speedy recovery, rather than disintegration and martyrdom. If nothing else, you are a dynamo, and we know you can beat this. We are left now with the regret that we're not reporting your positive COVID-19 test in jest, but instead as real news.
After several years of publicly touting his supposed "genius IQ," President Donald Trump has finally submitted to taking a standardized intelligence test. Last week, President Trump sat down with psychologist Gabriella Lopez, who administered the Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale (WAIS).
The results were unexpected.
According to Dr. Lopez, President Trump brought his tax returns to the testing appointment. These are the same tax returns that the president refused to publicly release several years ago, causing controversy. According to Dr. Lopez, Donald Trump believed that one's IQ score was calculated by looking at net worth.
"He didn't understand that a test was involved," she said, "and he used the term 'income quotient' more than once."
When Dr. Lopez explained that intelligence was measured by cognitive problem-solving ability, President Trump reportedly counter-explained that "smart people have money because they’re winners." He then went on to explain to her, for the better part of an hour, that he’s a genius who has "lots and lots of money."
"At one point," Dr. Lopez added, "he removed his wallet and began throwing hundred-dollar bills on the test itself."
As Trump refused to answer a single question on the WAIS, his results were uninterpretable. The president’s IQ remains unknown, though Dr. Lopez speculated that his inability to understand the difference between the phenomena of "thinking" and "having money" would suggest, in her words, "substantial cognitive deficits."
When President Trump heard about Dr. Lopez’s speculation, he tweeted "she’s an illegal" and "the test is fake, create [sic] by Democrats."
***
Image attribution: Krzysztof Sitkowski / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)
Austin, TX (AP) - A leak from the records division of L.C. Anderson High School in Austin, Texas, has revealed that Alex Jones, the founder of conspiracist website InfoWars and host of the infamous self-titled radio show, has an IQ of 9.
According to the leaked documents, the teenaged Jones scored in the single-digits on the Stanford-Binet Intelligence Scales (third edition), a popular test of cognitive ability at the time. Statistically speaking, this places Jones more than 5 standard deviations below the population mean, meaning his intelligence is grossly impaired relative to that of the average person. In order to characterize this kind of cognitive deficiency, psychologist Henry H. Goddard grouped people with especially low IQ scores into subcategories. These included "morons", who had IQs of 51–70, "imbeciles," who scored 26-50, and "idiots," who scored 0-25.
Alex Jones, courtesy Travis County Sheriff's Office
Given his score of 9, Alex Jones is, technically speaking, an idiot. Still, Jones' idiocy has not precluded him from establishing a massively popular radio show and website, in the process cementing himself as one of the most trusted and representative voices in American conservativism.
It's hard to fathom that a man who espoused that autism is caused by vaccines, that Hurricane Katrina was geo-engineered via weather weapons, that the Sandy Hook mass shooting was a false flag perpetrated by gun control advocates, and that "estrogen mimickers" in water bottles are part of a government operation to turn people gay, has serious intellectual impairments.
"Alex Jones is a testament to the adaptivity of the brain and the irrepressible spirit of America," offered Andreas Nabovsky, a neuroscientist at Florida Pacific University. "A staggering proportion of the American populace see this certifiable idiot as the pinnacle of intellectual achievement. It's amazing how someone with such low brain function can inspire so many Americans."
Accompanying documents indicate that Jones took the Stanford-Binet test multiple times, with 9 marking his highest score. Apparently, the teenaged Jones sought valiantly to break double-digits, but to no avail.
Jones responded to the news by promptly scheduling another sitting for a more up-to-date intelligence test. According to test administrators at Sound Mind Psychology in Austin, Jones ripped up the exam paper at the fifteen-minute mark and then ate the shreds.
***
Stephen Kunk lives with his wife and two daughters on the Pacific coast of the United States.
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