WHILE IT is true that my incredible combination of talents would suit itself to most any task, there are a certain few that I think might suit or interest me most. To wit: that of Crime Scene Investigator. A modern Sherlock Holmes, I would use my incredible deductive reasoning and superior powers of perception to foil the madcap killing sprees of murderers everywhere.
Allow me to set the scene:
It is a cold, dark night. There is a body lying on the ground in an alley in a bad part of town. Mist swirls around the still form as, in a nearby zoo, an owl hoots and a wolf howls eerily.
Suddenly, a policeman appears on the scene.
“Shaun? Shaun! There’s been a murder and we need your help desperately!”
Instantly alert, I sit up. “Let’s roll, baby,” I say suavely.
Moments later, we arrive at at a well-lit, cheery apartment in the city. Among the throng of police, I see that my partner—a sexy yet by-the-books woman named Clarice Scully with whom I have, oddly, not yet consummated our professional relationship—has already arrived and is dusting for fingerprints. I greet her with a firm smack on the ass.
“Any fingerprints?” I ask.
“Nope,” she replies.
I begin stroking my beard thoughtfully, then thrust my index finger into the air as it hits me:
“The killer must not have any hands. We should round up and interview all the multiple amputees we can find.”
An officer dashes out as Clarice gasps. “So… another victim of The Nubby Strangler, you think?”
“Perhaps,” I say. “But there seems to be something different about this killing… I just can’t quite put my finger on it.”
I smile and wait for everyone to get the joke. As they do, one by one they begin laughing and cheering. To have a handless killer… then, “can’t put my finger on it”… brilliant. This is brilliant fucking police work.
I strut on into the boudoir, where I spot a naked hottie covered in blood lying on the bed. I quickly intuit that she is the murder victim. As the gathered police respectfully clear the way, I sashay confidently up to the corpse and begin fondling her breasts.
“Firm, but not stiff. Looks like rigor mortis hasn’t kicked in yet,” I move quickly to her exposed va-jay-jay, thrusting my fingers in with a practiced, clinical precision, “…and she’s still warm all up in there. Nope, she hasn’t been dead long at all.”
I remove my dripping fingers and then look at them, thoughtfully. “Looks like the killer may have left some DNA evidence, too. We’ll have to wait at least thirty minutes for a DNA test, but”—my tongue darts out to lick my fingers—“tastes like blood type A-negative to me.” More clapping arises from my fellow investigators as one policeman begins swabbing my fingers and another grabs a spoon from the kitchen in order to scoop out additional evidence.
“Brilliant!” effuses Clarice, rightly smitten. “So how do you think the killer got in?”
“Well,” I say, trying not to sound too condescending, “I don’t know about you, but I usually use a door.” I glance around the apartment. “If I recall correctly, there was one at the entrance to the apartment, leading into the hallway.”
A rookie office dashes back to the entry, and returns wide-eyed. “He’s right! That proves it!”
Nods all around. Poor, dumb Clarice.
“Anything unusual about the body?” I ask, graciously attempting to divert everyone’s attention from Clarice’s failures.
“Well,” she begins, “the victim appears to have an extra vagina on her neck.”
I look and quickly confirm existence of the slit on her throat. But… wait…
“This… is no vagina!” I declare. “This… is a wound!”
More gasps and murmurs. Clarice is dumbfounded.
“Of course!” She sees it, now. “A horizontal cut across the neck! Such an injury could very will kill a person! But… how did it end up there?”
“Well,” I say, placing a pipe in my mouth, “I figure a handless murderer couldn’t sharpen his fingernails enough to make such a cut, since he doesn’t have fingers with which to manipulate a nail file. So he must have used a tool. Or…” I add with a wink, “she must have used a tool”.
A thud, as the rookie officer from before faints to the ground from the shock. A woman could have killed this victim, then used a turkey baster to shove some semen up there that she purchased from the local convenience store.
Some officers drag out the unconscious rookie, while others begin looking for possible cutting implements. Clarice grabs ahold of the bedside lamp and attempts to force it into the woman’s neck-wound, but it won’t fit. She looks at me, pleading for help.
“What about that bloody knife?” I ask, pointing to a bloody knife.
Clarice tries it and… it fits! She looks up, exuberant.
“It fits! But could it really have created the wound?”
“One way to find out,” I say back, snatching the knife and raking it across the throat of an inattentive officer standing nearby. He drops to the floor, gurgling. As the blood flows out, we see… a long cut across his throat. It’s a perfect match! Amidst yet more cheers, the officer tries to congratulate me, but lazily dies instead.
“Bring the victim to the lab,” I demand, “and prepare this officer’s body to be burnt as sacrifce in the Shrine of Investigation.”
* * *
Back at the lab, Clarice and I stand around the prone body, jabbing it with microscopes.
“Clarice, we’re getting nowhere fast,” I say. “And I don’t just mean the sexual tension between us. I think I may have to resort to less orthodox techniques if I’m going to crack this case.”
Clarice shakes her head. “You always have to throw the book out, don’t you.” She’s so by-the-books, that Clarice.
Moments later, the victim’s body has been duct-taped into a chair. I hurl a legal textbook at the victim’s head.
“WHO KILLED YOU?” I scream. Short any more books, I slam a baseball bat into her ribcage. “TELL ME WHO KILLED YOU, DAMNIT!”
“Shaun, this isn’t working!” Clarice opines.
“You’re telling me,” I reply. “Bring me a cricket bat. Those Brits may be onto something.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head dumbly. “I mean this… the torture. It’s just not an effective interrogation technique. You can’t expect to get the information you need this way.”
I stop peeing on the corpse for a moment to ponder this.
Moments later, Clarice has been duct taped into a chair. I hurl a cricket bat at Clarice’s head.
“OK, OK, IT’S AN EFFECTIVE TECHNIQUE,” she screams.
“Perfect!” I cry. “That’s just the information I needed. And all this duct-taping of women reminds me of something… I—I know who killed the victim!”
Just then, the Chief of Police (as ably played by Bill Paxton) barges in.
“Shaun!” he exclaims. “Sexy but by-the-books Clarice! It’s been half an hour, so the DNA test is back!”
We hold our collective breath as Paxton dramatically opens the envelope, making great use of the same gravitas he brought to “Titanic” and “Twister”.
“Computer magic has determined that the plentiful semen of excellent color, consistency, and bouquet belongs to… Shaun! Other police in the room, arrest that man!”
As the police descend upon me, I calmly hold up a hand. “Stop, assholes!”
“You see, just before the Chief dramatically burst into the room, I remembered what happened. It was not I who killed this woman. You see, I merely sexed her up, then wandered off for a little nap in an alley.
“However, as the victim lay there, she realized that her life had climaxed alongside me, and that there was nowhere to go from here but downhill. No, it was not me who killed her… it was she!” I pointed a finger then at the victim, outdoing even Bill Paxton in my dramatic chops.
“Other police in the room, arrest that beaten, urine-soaked corpse!” the Chief decalres. They handcuff the corpse, and slip in a couple rough elbows for good measure.
“Gee, Shaun,” says Clarice, nuzzling up to me. “All this brilliance is making me want to forego my by-the-books ways. Care for a tryst in the microscope closet?”
“Sure, baby,” I say with a wink. “I’ll bring the knife.”
* * *
And so, with crime in America essentially vanquished, I would be a national hero. It would be like if Batman and Superman had a baby together, and then that baby grew a beard and got laid a whole lot instead of just stupidly pining over frumpy old Rachael Dawes and Lois Lane. The best way to score with them would have been to bang lots of other chicks… women get all jealous about that stuff.
But yes, just think of the world you’d live in if the department would just stop rejecting my applications. Assholes.
THE VAGINA is the Bermuda Triangle of the human body: an area of mystery, shrouded in secrets and teeming with hidden dangers. Today, I shall teach you how to tame this enchanting wilderness—how to avoid its trickster fairies and soothe its savage bigfoots. For, once lost in its cavernous recesses, your attention may never leave, or at the very least may have a peculiar smell about it once it finally does.
Men, you will thank me for the knowledge contained herein. Women, remember that the pleasures bestowed upon you by your heretofore incompetent lovers is but a pale one-zillionth of a thousandth of a hundred-and-twenty percent of what you would experience with me. I know that sounds odd, but the math checks out.
First, you must make love to the pussy with your mouth. I mean, of course, that you must get down there and speak sweet nothings to it. Greet it with a jovial salutation. Ask it how it’s been since you last saw each other, how was its day, etc. A bit of humor may help; many pussies are suckers for knock-knock jokes, perhaps unsurprisingly. Which brings us to our next point, tricking the thing into opening.
Much has been written on whether or not pussies have special key-words that will allow you to enter. The answer is an emphatic “Yes”. The typical keyword is well-known to be a simple utterance of “mellon”. However, the staunchest pussies may still deny entry at that point. But wait, don’t break out the jimmy yet! Literally or metaphorically.
In this very frustrating yet all-too-common case, I refer you to an ancient text found scrawled on a scrap of panty found wedged deep into a broken vase in a cave near the ruins of Khirbet Qumran. They were once believed to be thought a medieval forgery sold to the ever-gullible Emmanual Philibert, Duke of Savoy, who was then desperate to use the inscripted words on the infamously tightlipped pussy of the soon-to-be Queen Elizabeth I. However, the fact that soon after his rejection by Elizabeth he was able to produce Charles Emmanuel I of Savoy with his eventual wife Margaret of France suggests that the script is not so apocryphal as once believed.
Regardless, the words:
Av behn raeleh traehn
Tu heldbek tees – fee – lehns fersohlone
Evyu fehl lakkah fehl
Though they have resisted translation so far, if intoned correctly—and preferably in a deep baritone—you are almost guaranteed to part those glorious beef slabs like a modern-day Moses. Which itself explains why no one has quite gotten to the point of trying to translate them. Note: take care when attempting to practice the intonation that you are not near any women who are relatives, elderly, fat, or otherwise undesirables. Moreover, no one has yet determined what would happen if a woman actually reads the words aloud, and I hope to Shaun that we never find out—make sure this knowledge does not fall into the wrong hands!
At this point, however, do not make the error of believing that your work is done. Far from it. For maximum efficacy, we must work to make sure that we have captured the pussy’s confidence.
Pussies are notoriously insecure, and a great way to win one over is to reassure it of its failings. Consult the below table for some suggested lies to feed the pussy.
|If pussy is… tell it…|
|Splotchy||I love that color on you!|
|Uneven||I think it’s so inspiring the way you’ve overcome your disability!|
|A Bit Stank||Is that a French perfume I smell?|
|Harsh Like Sandpaper||Honestly? I love a challenge!|
|Diseased||Well you’ve a healthy glow in your cheeks, this evening!|
|Horizontal||You know, I’ve always admired your independent streak!|
|A Penis||Nothing. Run.|
For reasons unknown, it often helps to tell it these things in a slight Spanish accent. While this is, I admit, anecdotal at best, research is forthcoming that leading vaginologists like myself expect to ultimately back this up.
In addition, some lamentably ill-informed women will resist shaving their pussies. In this case, do NOT panic. You can try to forget the experience after it is over. But in the meantime, simply tossle its hair playfully, pinch its cheeks, and proceed as planned.
At this point, you should have the pussy near salivating! But this in itself can be a problem. I recommend bringing a napkin along just in case things get too messy. Try not to bring a paper napkin though… they lose their tensile strength when they get wet. You can lose pieces in there, only to have them show up later when it’s much less convenient. In the meantime it’s easy enough to steal a classy cloth napkin from your local Olive Garden, and the extra effort you put in to keep things elegant will not go unnoticed by the pussy. If you can manage to get your hands on some monogrammed “V” cloth napkins, you’re in like Shaun!
Now to clear up some common misconceptions with simple DOs and DON’Ts:
*Pussies DON’T like babytalk. While trying to sweet-talk the vagina in question, do not resort to such babbling. They find it degrading.
*DON’T let it know that you are afraid. Pussies can smell your fear, and will feed off it.
*DO plug it back up when you are done. You don’t want any small animals crawling up there when you’re not around.
*Some pussies DO have teeth in them. However, they are usually small and unlikely to break the skin.
*DON’T bother searching for the g-spot. Like the female orgasm, its existence is a myth perpetrated by women who need a way to stop feeling that they are inferior to men. For some reason, they just can’t accept the fact that they are.
And there you have it! Part I of Shaun’s guide to pussies. Stay tuned for Part II: “Plumbing the Depths”.
I HAVE noticed that a large number of you readers waste a significant amount of your time in activities totally unrelated to me. While it is true that I need you to continue purely life-sustaining practices in order that you may still live to serve me, you may as well consider the rest of your time forfeit in service to me.
In order to assist in remedying this travesty, I have undertaken a careful study of the ways in which you all waste your time. The results, surprisingly, were unsurprising: most of you spend your time either in pursuit of “fun” activities for your own selfish benefit, or else engaged with unenjoyable work that you “have” to do—at least in your own twisted mind.
However, there was one category that represented neither anything “fun” nor anything “necessary”: religious devotions. While there are some traditional theological questions worth asking (If God was a chick would She have boobs so huge that even She could not create a bra great enough to hold them?), most of these questions are best applied to me (and already answered). Seeing this, then, I have decided set your souls free this very day—that I might bind them to myself the next. For there is no one more worthy of your worship than I, and no one so perfect to worship me but you.
I shall now compare the salient characteristics of the most important religions to the worship of myself, hereby dubbed “Shaunism”. See for yourself the advantages of your new-found faith.
|Object of Worship|
|Christianity||Old bearded man, Young bearded man, Intact hymens|
|Judaism||Money, Heaps of withered foreskins|
|Islam||Osama Bin Laden, Hating America|
|Hinduism||Cows, maybe bulls also|
|Atheism||Atheismo, the All-Powerful|
As you can see, most religious beliefs are waaaaay off. Hating Americans was so 2001, and bovines are really only worshippable in a more processed format, and ideally with cheese.
I’m honestly with the Jews on this one for the most part. Having money is pretty sweet, and aside from the aesthetic appeal of shiny coins and the tactile pleasures of dollar bills dragged along my nipples, having it will get you far. But then… you get to the creepy foreskin thing and you wonder if Judaism has its priorities right. Unless there’s some way to turn foreskins into money—and if anyone can do it, it’s the Jews—Judaism’s kinky secondary interests negate its primary focus.
Christianity comes damn close here, too. They have the idea of a bearded messiah right, even though in the end Jesus is just another False Shaun. Actually, now that I think of it—give the Jews another point for killing the damned imposter. Anyway, Christians, like Jews, lose this contest due to their secondary focus… preventing lots of women from banging me. And while I suppose I appreciate the thought of them all keeping themselves for me, I’d rather they not spend the whole damn time crying and bleeding and whatnot. Or at least, not any more than I want them to.
|Atheism||Polled Atheists could not respond with 100% certainty|
|Shaunism||Fuck yeah! Who do you think is writing this?|
I kind of added this category as an afterthought. While the results seem obvious to me, I did a few quick surveys on the bus yesterday and damned if people weren’t invested in the lies.
I suppose it’s not too surprising that most of the book-based religions are garbage—I dare you to read that thing and not laugh, seriously—but I expected more of Atheism. It doesn’t technically conflict with Shaunism at all, since I am not a deity, exactly, but more the closest that mankind will ever come to it. However on questioning several atheists they were unable to give me a straight answer—they kept hedging by talking about “science” and “probability” and other such nonsense. Eventually I walked away on one while he was going on some irrelevant tangent about the aerodynamic efficiencies of pasta. Sorry guys… no answer, no points.
In this case, we are left with only one truth, Me. Any hot chicks doubting my existence are invited to pay a visit and experience an epiphany. Anyone else can watch the aforementioned chicks stumbling about, newly bowlegged.
|Attitude Toward Sex|
|Judaism||Holes in sheets|
|Islam||Sexual actions towards women limited to stoning and burning|
|Hinduism||Flexible but impractical|
|Atheism||Technically proficient, but without passion|
We’ve already discussed the ignorant sexual mores of Christians, but what about the other religions under our microscope?
The most promising is of course Hinduism, they of the famed Kama Sutra. Question, though: have you ever tried to bend yourself into those positions? Not. Very. Comfortable. Really, if you can bend like that you might as well just blow yourself and save yourself the trouble of trying to find a chick with a double-jointed pelvis.
And while I can’t say I don’t fantasize about stoning and burning from time to time, I’d at least like to have my dick out in the process, so Islam gets nixed. Judaism just doesn’t make sense unless there are several sheets, and the hole is quite small. And from my previous experience with the more sexually alluring fabrics (polyester, alpaca, etc.), I know all too well that the throes of passion can lead to some serious chafing and burns.
No, the clear winner here is Scientology. Think of it… three-boobed alien babes. Extraterrestrial creatures with vibrating vaginas. And while admit I’m short on experience, I can’t deny a slightly more than casual interest in the potential pleasures of these “anal probes” I’ve been hearing so much about.
But… what’s that? No known communication with alien species? Contact within our lifetimes unlikely? Oh well, I guess Shaunism just wins this category, too. Unless SETI can get off their lazy asses. And until then at we can look toward genetic engineering for the otherworldly 40-18-36 sex machines of the future.
And now for the most important category:
|Christianity||Two words: Pope Hat|
|Judaism||Small, unstylish skullcaps, ineffective against rain or sun|
|Atheism||Traditional propeller beanie|
The most important thing about any religion is, of course, style—and that’s why the headwear category is weighted more highly than any other.
The fashionistas of the religious world are in many ways the Hindus. Ornate, elaborate turbans that, while they look cool, upset the balance and are incredibly difficult to fold correctly. Past experience suggests they do not hold up well in rain, either.
On the swing end of this, we have the minimalists—the Jews. Small and pointless: the best description of their headwear. It’s almost as though they were mocking other religions’ dedication to elaborate haberdashery. However, consider the case of someone who might, for example, flaunt his obesity in defiance of the thin, muscular, Shaun-ish look preferred by most of society. Sure, you’re making a point… but in the meantime, you’re still a fat shit. Just so, the Jews spitefully mock the headwear of the other religions, while suffering through inadequate protection from rain and sun, as well as a total disregard for style.
As for propeller beanies… well, a man can dream, but I’ve yet to see one that will lift me off the ground.
The winner here would be Christianity. And let me tell you why: Pope Hats. The Pope has a truly magnificent collection of crazy hats. It’s no wonder so many people follow that man. Anyone who has hats like that and can wear them in public with the style and conviction of the Pope is worthy of followers.
Except he’s the only one who can wear them. What the fuck fun is that? I don’t want to watch someone wear those amazing things, I want them on my head, and I want them on my head right fucking now you Pope bastard. But no… they’re locked up in the Vatican, the secret of their construction carefully guarded by legions of Rosicrucians, Masons, and poorly constructed plot twists.
Only Shaunism allows you the ability to wear whatever you want on your head. All the time, any time. That’s right: even Pope hats. That’s just how great it is to worship Shaun.
And while there are no doubt more characteristics that we could examine here, I really don’t see the point. I feel that I’ve established quite well that Shaunism holds up against the other major religions by any sensible metric. The only reasonable conclusion is presented here for your convenience:
|Atheism||100% Certain Fail|
THERE IS a certain type of woman whose intrinsic femininity and grace transcends that of mere sex or sexual attraction, and approaches a platonic ideal that is “woman.” Such ethereal nymphs give pause to any of us, for who could help but admire such delicacy of features—such tenderness of bubbies? These celestial creatures inspire us to wonder and elevate us to awe; the diamond strain of their existence cuts through the dark coal dross of our lives and infuses it with a satiating shine. They convey the satisfaction that, yes, in fact, in this oft-ugly world there is beauty.
Melissa “Missy” Pendergrass, however, is a total fucking cuntbag.
Because it would appear that there is another type of woman in the world. A type of woman for whom idiocy and vapidity skip hand-in-hand through fields of blossoming narcissi. A type of woman who abuses what modest features her mediocre genetics have bestowed upon her to exploit unsuspecting men into feeding her tremendous sense of self-importance. This is the “Missy Pendergrass” type of woman, and let me tell you some things about her.
Missy Pendergrass’s face smells like a butt, and her butt smells like two butts… no, three. Three butts.
If I may ask, what’s with the nickname? I mean, really… “Missy”? It makes you sound like you’re six years old. I mean, maybe that’s accurate, mentally. I can’t say that it would surprise me. However, usually in that case one wouldn’t want a name that just kind of screams “I have a little girl brain”.
Do you really need to dress like you do, Missy? There’s a difference between trying to look good, and just being a fucking whore. You don’t wear shirts that tight unless you are trying to get attention, Missy. And what’s with constantly adjusting your bra like that? Again: attention seeking behavior. Presumably if it didn’t fit then you would simply go get another one? So no, actually—I think it’s probably just fine and you only want an excuse to draw men’s attention to your chest because that attention is the only thing that can validate your existence to you. It’s good to know you can always rely on fulfilling a basic biological function to make you feel like you might actually be worth something in life, right?
And no, Missy… contrary to your opinion, I am not a joke. But I do actually have a joke for you. Ready? Okay, here goes: A Jew, an Islam, and a Christian walk into a bar. All three turn to each other and say, “Hey, I just fucked the shit out of Missy Pendergrass!”
Now that’s a joke, bitch. As you would no doubt text to your complementarily vapid friends: “LOLOLOLOL”!
So Missy… when you’re giving out yet another random handjob with those large, freakishly mannish hands of yours, how long does it usually take before the guy starts screaming, “Careful with the rabbit, Lenny”?
As regards your “accusations” to HR, I would like to know exactly what proof you have that anyone was smelling your chair after you got up. To be honest, that doesn’t sound like the kind of thing you can back up without videotape. Moreover, who would want to smell your chair?
I can’t help but think that you must just fart on that thing all day long. I can only imagine you sitting in that chair all day, squirming as you feel those grotesque rumblings wending their way down your abdomen. You eat like a fucking pig, Missy, and it’s no wonder you’re starting to look a little thick around the waist.
I bet that last hamburger starts kicking around in there—when, maybe 1:00, 1:30pm? All of a sudden about that time you start sweating because all that gas is making you want to explode. Then you lean over just a tiny bit and pfft!, out it comes, and sinks right into that gross spongy chair seat of yours. By 2:00 your fat ass is floating like a goddamn hovercraft, and the stink just seeps into there. I’d be surprised if anyone could stomach to go near the damn thing, let alone stick their faces on it.
What the fuck are those gross stains I’ve seen on there, anyway, Missy? Fucking period blood or something? You know I would have thought you weren’t that gross—that you weren’t that negligent of basic hygiene practices, but there it is, right in patchy little splotches on your chair. Matter of fact, I suspect that anyone brave, foolhardy, or deranged enough to act as you have suggested would wind up with gonorrhea of the face.
Readers, beware this woman. I am unfortunate enough to have come into her wretched sphere of acquaintance, and—as you can no doubt tell by this point—have not since ceased being sorry for having had done so.
Well, there you have it. Missy Pendergrass: living proof that eating pussy can give you tapeworms.
TODAY, I am going to lay some truth down on you. Today, readers, I shall tell you How It Is.
I’m an American. I love America, and it loves me. Or at least it had better. If not, it can move the fuck to France for all I care. But I’m pretty sure it does, so we’re cool.
Now, why do I love America? Because it’s a kindred spirit. America is at the top of the world right now, and though it may be cliche, it’s damned lonely at the top. I know that, because I’m there, too. Sure, the ladies up here are great, but they’re usually out the door in the morning with nary so much as a can of Mountain Dew left on the dresser. Which I guess in terms of countries would be like Canada leaving Maple syrup on Fort Knox, or something.
So if America’s at the top, what’s below it? There are literally numbers of countries that exist worldwide each year, all with their own “names” and “governments”. But here’s what you need to know:
There’s America, Mexico, and Iraq.
Of course, there’s only one country in the “America” category: The United States of America. We’re the best, and we know it. Everyone else does, too. Some might say they’re in “South America”. Others might say they’re part of “North America”. These are clever misdirections, but don’t let this fool you: it’s all just Mexico.
Mexico? Well, they’re not the best. And they know it. They wanna be, but like that fat kid in 7th grade gym class, they just don’t have what it takes. So what other countries are Mexico? England, Germany, Japan, Austr(al)ia, Brazil, Spain, France, and Canada, when it’s not spreading it’s legs for us like a fucking whore. There are others, but frankly I don’t know or care which ones they are.
Iraq? Now, like Mexico, Iraq isn’t as great as America. But boy, does it ever wanna be. However, it’s going about it all wrong. Rather than slaver at our feet like its poncy brethren in “The Euro Zone” (Seriously? Gayest zone ever.) it buries those queer, unfamiliar feelings deep inside until it boils over in rage. Every time America bends down to pick up another country’s discarded freedom—thrusting those magnificent glutes in the air—Iraq feels an incredible rage. Fellow Iraqis are countries like North Korea, China, Russia, Syria, Iran… actually pretty much the whole middle east. And although normally Mexican, France is often believed to have lived in Iraq for a time as an exchange student.
Being Shaun is a lot like being America. Some people want to be me, some people want to fly airplanes into me. Some people want my Florida to rearrange their insides, some people want their communist ideals to tear me down from the inside.
And sure, I can be a bit of a cowboy sometimes, what with the chaps and all, but in the end I bring order and law to an unruly internet much the way that Americans brought order and smallpox to ignorant natives.
“So,” you may be asking yourself, “what kind of person am I? The stately and sexy American? The desperate and pathetic Mexican? The hateful and smelly Iraqi?”
Well, readers, I have devised a test. Answer the following questions, score them appropriately, and we’ll know what nationality you are.
1. (True/False) Because I cannot live there legally, I have considering building an outsized slingshot to hurl me into his apartment through a window.
2. Would you rather eat A) a burrito of jealousy or B) a felafel of rage?
3. Assuming you could grow a beard, I would A) shave it daily B) keep it trim and sexy like Shaun(‘s) C) grow it long and angry like the Ayatollah(‘s).
4. (True/False) Because I cannot live there legally, I have considered building an outsized slingshot to hurl Molotov cocktails into his apartment through a window.
5. You are wearing a A) Shaun’s First Orgasm ’95 commemorative T-shirt or hoodie B) Shaun-mask sewn from the skins of several dead Chippendale dancers C) bomb.
6. Assuming you are a woman, you A) perform, in order to better please me, enough Kegel exercises that you can crack a walnut, B) trim your muff into a close simulacrum of my beard, C) are fat.
7. If you were a website, would you be A) www.shaunshaunshaun.com, B) www.juanjuanjuan.com, C) www.mileycyrus.com (fuck you for banning me from posting in the forums, you fucking fucks).
8. (True/False) You are Shaun. But be honest, now… you’re not trying to impress some gullible chick at a bar. ‘Cuz you’re not Shaun… and if you were, you’d be home with her already.
1. True – add 5 points
2. A) add 5 points B) add 10 points
3. B) add 5 points C) add 10 points
4. True – add 20 points
5. B) Add 5 points C) add 10 points
6. B) Add 5 points C) add 10 points
7. B) Add 5 points C) add 10 points
8. True – minus all points, False – add 25 points
Well, that was enlightening! Here’s how to interpret your scores:
0: Congratulations, me! I am me, and as ‘Merican as can be!
25-50: ¡Hola, amigo! A little south of the border today, are we? As a Mexican, you are naturally jealous that I am better than you, but with a little practice and a lot of deference, you can keep it in check and lead a normal, worshipful life of failed imitation—just like everyone else.
50: ¡Regardez-vous! Put down that baguette, faggette! No, but really… you need to think about the way your life is heading. Like France, you’ve a split personality… in all ways you try to be like me, but can’t help but feel resentful of me. Maybe some counseling is in order?
50+: Aieaieaieaieaie! Why you gotta be such a hater, Iraqi? You’re beyond redemption, and my only source of relief is that you will some day blow yourself up… in metaphor-speak, that means one of my sycophantic Mexican hombres will beat your ass. So… have fun with that!
And, readers, as promised: the way it is. Hopefully now you are a little wiser about me, about you, and about the way the world works… that is, for me.
I SAT down today with the intention of writing something for you ungrateful idiots, but honestly I just didn’t feel like it. Donations have stalled out at just over $10k, and the only nude pics anyone sent me were too damn fat. And way too penisy.
So rather than work my fingers to the bone for you dolts, I shall instead simply publish a work I created some time ago for Miley Cyrus. It was commissioned (albeit by myself, and for free) to commemorate her 18th birthday. Though she has not yet written me back—doubtless because one of her idiot assistants failed to realize whom it was from—I feel it fulfills the requisite characteristic of great art in that it captures an essential truth and beauty (i.e. Miley).
Regardless, I suspect if posted here that it shall reach her, as it seems likely that she reads this site—or at the very least that Selena Gomez does. Hey, Selena! Point Miley this way, ‘kay hon?
Miley: my belated birthday present to you. Mwah.
A Paean to Miley Cyrus
Written Upon the Occasion of Her Eighteenth Birthday
To Celebrate Her Flowering into Legal Womanhood
Part I: A Star is Born!
The night was cold in Nashville, Tennesee
Yet shone the many stars so fiery bright.
But though they lit the land and spark’d the sea
From yon vagina came the brightest light.
For born that day a country music star,
Of nascent beauty, voice, and poise so fine!
Much like the flow’r that grows thru cracks in tar,
From redneck seed this nymph has sprung, divine!
Though ‘cross the land our consciousness still slept
(For we’d not know sweet Miley for a while)
Slowly now a growing glow has crept
And slumb’ring hearts are warmed, and slightly smile.
‘Twas little doubt that soon her fame should spread
As infant grew to child and then to teen;
Her photographs and interviews soon led
Through each and every fawning magazine.
“Oh placate us with songs mellifluous
And concert movies shot in bad 3-D!”
And like the classy lass that Miley was
She simply could not help but bend the knee.
As actress she with effortless technique
Can move the hardest heart to helpless tears,
…Yet for this gift that Billy gave to us,
Our gratitude is found in much arrears.
Part II: But There Is Trouble!
A flashbulb-bearing fury quickly comes!
They’d tread to death this tender asphodel!
That fain would leave her with but trifling crumbs!
And now a nightmare descent into hell!
A papparazzi horde that seeks to steal
From saintly Miley her artistic zeal
And so this girl just cannot help but feel
That she is squelched beneath the public’s heel.
A proper weight it is to bear
That damn’d stabbing malefic stare
That’d flowers wilt and angels tear
They stare stare stare stare stare!
For relief from this melancholia,
She quickly turns to sweet, sweet salvia.
And to distract from her public’s misdeed
We can’t lay blame that she should smoke some weed.
But judgement lent by cynics asinine
Who, jealous now of your goddess and mine,
Cast scorn on this tender loving songstress;
They seem to like to sow fearful distress.
Now Billy Ray throws his hat in the ring.
He should be glad to sit and badly sing.
He drones on about some dumb Satan thing,
Then sits a stool and thinks himself a king.
So now she thinks all hope is gone,
Two broken wings on this white swan,
To give up now? Or carry on?
And wait… but there is Shaun!
Part III: But There Is Shaun!
I leap in like a daring superhero!
I smite the papparazzi with my fists,
Kick one in the chest ’til pulse reads zero,
And curbstomp Billy off top forty lists,
Then squat and poop upon his crackéd skull.
For yes, I love her and am here to stay,
‘Tis true her beauty did my notice cull!
(Though not, I’ll point out, in a creepy way.)
I’m here to sooth her achy-breaky heart,
And so girl-Jesus sings a jaunty tune,
She knows me by my face (a work of art),
And cannot bear to leave with me too soon.
I’ve saved her mind and vanquished all her foes.
She claps her hands and laughs and jumps with glee,
And then bestows some smooches unto me,
And we prepare to go… where? No one knows.
Oh Miley sweet, please say you’ll stay with me,
You give us Hope; your name is Destiny.
With Love, Dedicated to
Destiny Hope “Miley” Cyrus*
23 November, 2011 Anno Domini
1 January, 18 Anno Cyrusi
*I know she changed her name legally to Miley but I actually like this one better
and will try to convince her to change it back when she finally responds, so fuck off.
FOR TIME immemorial, men and women—but mostly men—have wanted to know who is the fastest, strongest, burliest, and toughest of them all. Of course, no one back in ancient times could have forseen my existence, and so instead developed any number of inane, misguided techniques to determine who was toughest.
Cavemen would kill mammoths, then wear the hollowed tusks as codpieces. Then whoever could keep from falling forward the longest would attract the lustful attentions of the hairy, muscular cavebabes. Then the Greeks, of course, invented nude wrestling, running, discus, and hunting, then held contests to see which men could paint more vases with scenes of these naked sports. Soon Victorian-era men were circling each other menacingly, fists aloft, screaming obscenities like “milquetoast,” “fop,” and “popinjay” until one or the other eventually died of cholera.
These days, a new method of determining the toughest man has arisen, and it’s called “Ultimate Fighting.” The problem? It’s full of pussies.
Now, the sport is a peculiar one to say the least. The goal is to use a mix of grasping and grunting techniques to bring your opponent to the ground and lay on him until he gives up. Within those confines, anything is allowed.
Above, we see two Ultimate Fighters in a fight in the Ultimate Fighting Championship, the premier league for Ultimate Fighting. The man on top is attempting to secure a tighter laying position upon the bottom man, who is desperately trying to push away and stand up, that he might then attempt to lay upon his like-minded brother.
The fact of the matter is that these “Ultimate Fighters” are at best penultimate—or even antepenultimate—fighters, with the first slot or two belonging, of course, to yours truly. There are no men known today who can match my pure strength and manliness. Moreover, my intellectual genius lends itself to the sort of tactical reasoning demanded of those who would succeed in any sport. In fact, I can say without hesitation that I would by by far the most ultimate Ultimate Fighter ever to ever lay down on a man on the canvas of the octagon.
Let us now examine the type of man I would be competing against:
Here, we see two archetypes of the sort of man who is an ultimate fighter. To the left is one Alan Belcher. Note his simian posture and apelike expression. His tattoo, though certainly fearsome in a way, is clearly not one decided upon by any master tactician. His type is that of an animalistic brute, who may attempt to parlay his natural, confused aggression into an attempt at laying upon someone out of pure feral instinct.
To the right is one Danny Downes, who typifies the sort of fey boy-man who often competes in this sport. It is almost as though, lacking in any inherent manliness of his own, he must compete in a sport perceived as masculine to assure himself of his own gender. Note that both he and Belcher are weirdly hairless—another trait commonly shared by these decumbently-minded “fighters,” who presumably are all be trapped in a state of arrested sexual development.
Now, compare these two to a manly specimen:
Now here is a born fighter! Not unlike myself, he is bristling with muscle and covered in a manly pelt of thickest fur. His gently reclining posture just dares you to try and lay on him. Frankly, had he not made the bizarre mistake of not having a beard, this gentleman may very well out-man me! My metaphorical hat is off to you, sir.
Consider me, Shaun, fighting in the UFC. As my blog is to the blogosphere, so would my fights be to the the octagonosphere. My combination of daring, fight intelligence, and manliness would make me the envy of every ultimate fighting fan. My devastating good looks would draw the female market to the sport for the first time.
Let’s entertain the idea of a matchup between myself and the consensus greatest fighter in the history of the UFC, Fedor Emelianenko.
As we stand across from each other in the cage, I flex menacingly at him. His eyes briefly pop out nearly as far as my muscles, and then a single bead of sweat trickles down his stupid Russian face as he tries unsuccessfully to pretend he didn’t notice.
Cage announcer Michael Buffer walks into the cage with his microphone and begins to announce us: “In this corner, standing six feet tall and weighing a portly two hundred twenty-three pounds, hailing from Russia… a big dumb stupidhead… Fedor Emilianenko!”
“Booooo!” scream the highly partisan crowd. Several female fans rush the cage to attack him, but are pulled off by security.
“And in this corner, standing five feet seven inches and also weighing two hundred twenty three pounds, hailing from the Internet… your hero and mine… Shaun!”
“Yaaaaay!” screams the crowd. A flurry of panties lands in the octagon, and soon production assistants appear with brooms to sweep them away. Some appear confused that my slim and trim figure would weigh so much. Others look to the reinforced front of my fight speedos and nod, knowingly. My ability to stay upright in the cage is long determined to result from my low center of balance.
“Ну, я трахал,” says a despondent Fedor.
“Fight!” yells the referee, then dashes out of the cage, looking for cover.
The Russian summons all the vodka-infused courage he can and sprints full speed at me, swinging his weak, womanly fists.
Boom! A ferocious punch to the cock has leveled the Russian. The sound of Fedor hitting the canvas shakes the stadium. A couple loose rafters fall down and kill some onlookers, but no one cares because the Russian lies flat on his back, shocked. He grimaces, preparing to be laid on, but instead I merely stand, feigning a lack of interest.
Hesitatingly, Fedor stands again and begins circling more cautiously this time, crotch dripping blood. I barely seem to have moved. Fedor shrieks a cry of desperate anger and grabs at me. Panic turns to shock and relief as I collapse under him.
Gleefully, he presses his pudgy belly into my face. “Откажись!” he yells. Then, from beneath him, though the sound is partially muffled by his fat, he hears words which chill him worse than the worst Siberian winter ever could:
“Tough luck, ‘comrade’…”
In a moment he is lifted from the ground as I carry him up the side of the cage with all the ease of King Kong carrying a black-and-white hottie up the Empire State Building.
I stand atop the cage, Fedor held aloft over my head. “This is for capitalism, fucker!” I scream, then jump off the cage and land atop my stunned adversary. I mash my chest into his open, gasping mouth, wrap my legs around his hips, and begin to grind against him agressively in the Ultimate Fighting style.
“Волосы душит меня!” he tries to scream, but of course can’t through a mouthful of sweaty hair. As he feels my muscles slowly crushing him muscularly, he knows he is doomed. He has been laid upon, cannot get up, and—what’s worse—kinda likes it.
Soon, we are in the center of the cage, and the referee holds my hand high. Fedor stands to the side, crying and bashfully trying to hide his erection. Several woman rush the cage again gleefully, but this time security is prepared and uses their shotguns on the fat ones, then wisely corrals the rest away to my accomodations for a victory orgy later.
UFC head Bob Arum wraps the Awesomeweight Championship Belt around my waist and I accept it graciously. He then takes the microphone and announces the dissolution of all Ultimate Fighting, anywhere. There’s just no point anymore.
I go down in the history books as the greatest Ultimate Fighter of all time. This is, of course, only a footnote in my entry. But still, closing down an entire sport for lack of competition isn’t so bad. Shaun Kwan Do classes spring up everywhere in the following months, and Russia becomes our fifty-first state, to boot.
You’re welcome, America. You’re welcome.
WELL, IT has been a productive month here at la casa virtual del Shaun. The internet is rightly abuzz with news of my long-anticipated arrival, and forums dedicated to erotic Shaun fanfiction are popping up in all corners of the world.
In just three posts, I have provided millions with a new sex icon, received a restraint order from an actress (A-list… that’s a step up!), and have set afoot a revolution deep within the pants of every American that, even now, threatens to turn Washington’s politics and wardrobes inside out.
Naturally enough, I was staring at myself in a mirror while reflecting happily on all this when a startling thought occurred, shattering my peaceful erection: I’ve been doing this for free, but you all should have been paying me this whole time.
Starting now, I will be (explicitly) encouraging my readers to give me their money. I have established below a series of “optional” funding levels to help you decide exactly how much money you will give me, as well as how many times you will do so. You will also be properly incentivized with perks as the contribution level goes up.
Now rest assured, readers, all money will go to me–not charity or any b.s. like that. I cannot promise to use it on any one thing, but given my current expenses, Moutain Dew, video games, and exotically shaped fleshlights seem likely.
It turns out payment websites are assholes, and require all kinds of “fees” and shit. So… just email me your name, account numbers, social security number, and payment amount. Easy.
$1 – Total Cunt
One fucking dollar? What the fuck is wrong with you? That had better be only dollar you have to your name, you poor shit. Do you actually expect anything in return for this fucking travesty? Fine: in return for the dollar, I will send you an email with the subject line “YOU ARE A TOTAL CUNT”. There will be no text in this email, because, frankly, you do not deserve it. Your dollar will promptly find itself stuffed will go into the soiled g-string of the oldest, most decrepit stripper I can find, because that is all it is good for.
$1.01 – Still A Total Cunt
As above, you will receive an email with the subject line, “YOU ARE A TOTAL CUNT”. Your additional penny, however, will earn you the text: “And a smartass.”
$5 – Asshole/Cunt
So where were you in the wee hours of July 17th, 2008? Because, as it so happens, on that ill-fated day I was drunkenly unable to tell the difference between a cunt and an asshole, and I am suddenly feeling a certain sense of déjà vu. Your pathetic contribution will not garner you my attention now, unfortunately. However, should we ever someday meet in the future, please let me know that you were in fact that murkily-defined body cavity that happened to send me five bucks once. At long last, I will finally find myself able to reward you with a solid punch to the throat.
$10 – Asshole
Excellent! Once again I am on solid ground in dealing with a known aperture. But aside from that: horrible. As this level is essentially five dollars twice, logic suggests that I should simply punch you in the throat twice. However! That’s a lot of work, and I feel like my arms would be pretty tired, so scratch that. Instead I shall respond to this heresy in the form of a individualized letter berating you for not gifting more money to me. Actually, it would help a lot if you included with your donation a list of your least flattering anatomical features, as well as of any foul smells that you may sometimes produce. An unflattering picture is also OK, but… don’t make it too big. Ew.
$50 – Taintface
A picture of my nuts. That’s all you deserve, and that’s all you’re getting.
$100 – Grundlemug
A signed picture of my nuts. And if you’re wondering how exactly one signs a picture with one’s nuts, the phrase you’re looking for is “fingerprint pad”.
$1000 – Subjugate of Shaun
For the price of one thousand dollars, I will personally mail you one (1) of my sperm (sperm). [Legal disclaimer: This is a limited offer restricted to a quantity of 300 million a day, excepting for days when new paparazzi pics of Miley Cyrus come out. I also cannot guarantee that the sperm will definitely be mine, as it may instead belong to Harvey. You might also wish to send extra money for shipping and handling, as I don’t trust this box of envelopes very well.] For the more… “big-boned” of my female readers, I will point out that this may be your one-and-only chance to become inseminated by me. For male readers, I will recommend purchasing a pipette with which to insert the sperm down your urethra. It can then serve as something of a role-model to your own, and perhaps if it lasts long enough whatever poor, deprived woman you are boning will luck out and have her egg fertilized by me instead of—ugh—you.
$100,000 – Defender of the Beard
I’m going to jump ahead a bit here, since I expect most orders in excess of the thousand-dollar level will simply be multiples of a thousand intended to increase chances of insemination or the degree of testicular morale boost. However, not only will your hundred thousand dollars have helped to purchase the most advanced realdoll known to Shaun—and I have known many—but you will have earned the unique reward of a single hair from my magnificent beard. This one-of-a-kind filament is the type of collector’s item local women must resort to scrounging from my trash when I discard old razor blades, and since I presume they sell for up to $200,000 on eBay, this is a serious bargain.
$500,000 – Avowed Servant
I will, with much reluctance, allow you to follow me around for a day. I will strive to tolerate you throughout what will no doubt be a tiring period, though I cannot make any assurances that I will not assault you. Physically or verbally or… whatever, you know. You will, however, be expected to serve me in whichever way I see fit. If you intend to donate at this level, I would strongly suggest practicing your skills as a human footstool… I cannot overemphasize the importance of knee and elbow calluses. And ladies, this compulsion to serve could be a bonus. Have a spare five hundred g’s sitting around? Here’s your chance… so what are you waiting for? Time to step up, grab life by my balls, and suckle them.
$1,000,000 – Praetorian Guard
Congratulations. You have given me a million dollars. And… that’s it. What possible reward could I give you? That is, that I would also want to give you? Basically, if you choose this level of donation, you will receive a sense of accomplishment and well-being that can never again be matched in your lifetime. Feel free to print out the receipt of your accomplishment and rub your face on it. Then frame it. Hell, print out thousands, then wallpaper your house with them. Then sell your house and give me that money, too. Honestly, the wallpaper will only help with prospective buyers.
At this point, you should have no money left. But if you do, you could also consider moseying over to Josh’s page, Caffeinated Toothpaste, and donating whatever few pennies you have left over to him. He’s $296 away from his goal right now, and I think we can all agree the wonderful portrait of me you see is worth at least that, at the very least in the money you’ve saved from no longer having to buy internet pornography. Though the increased cost of tissues may offset that, I guess. Whatever… just buy misshapen tissues at an outlet store like I do.
WE ARE all born free. Born free to the possibilities of life. When infants, as naked of clothing as we are of pretension, there will never be another moment where we are so purely ourselves; for, briefly unfettered by society’s harsh dictums, each newborn child holds within it the potential to live a life full of simple joys and pleasures.
But… just wait ’til they get their Hanes on you.
Somewhere behind portentous wooden doors lie smoke-filled rooms wherein old, white-haired men cackle with glee to think that they have the world’s collective genitals in the palms of their hands. Meet “Big Underwear”: Hanes, Fruit of the Loom, and Victoria’s Secret. Though ostensibly garment magnates, they are no less captains of industry than they are of oppression or tyranny.
Boxers? Briefs? Thongs? These are but false choices designed to create an illusion of freedom amongst a brainwashed populace of idiots trained from birth to trust their most intimate areas to the grasping, greedy billionaires who all have hands in Big Underwear.
Do we truly need to shovel out our all too meager allowances for some paltry scraps of flea-bitten cloth? No, readers. It is a but a ploy to keep the weak-willed contained, and the cash in the hands of a fortunate few born with money and influence enough to stay afloat in the notoriously brutal international underwear trade.
From day one, parents must force diapers upon their wailing infant children… heavy constructs that must weigh so upon the babies that when they come of age to wear proper underwear it shall seem that much less a burden.
When young, our underwear is emblazoned with pictures of G.I.Joe, Barbie, or the Ninja Turtles; that is, anything to make this hegemony more palatable to our impressionable young minds. As teenagers and adults, we are constantly bombarded with the images of models in underwear in a plot to confuse attractiveness and sensuality with the clothing that would, in fact, cover our very most sexilicious features!
The politicians do not care for your plight. Oh, they might put on a sympathetic front, sure, but this is mere facade. Tear off that costume and you will find each Washington fat-cat thoroughly entangled within Big Underwear. Can you believe a Congresswoman who would entrust her very poon to the enemy? Or could you trust a Senator who is gifted a King’s ransom each year in fine silken briefs from the orient?
But I swear to you: there is one who will fight this uncomfortable menace.
For years now, I have championed the anti-underwear cause through a steadfast refusal to constrict myself within their insidious forms of machine-washable, 100% cotton bondage. In my day-to-day life, I heroically call attention to my lack of underwear as often as possible, at any opportunity displaying as much to my neighbors, my family, and sometimes even passer-bys in the street. I then bravely implore them to remove their own undergarments as well, for both our sakes, and for the sake of a fair and free society.
It is a sad sign of how things have progressed that few heed my call, and that most who do are disappointingly fat or old—surely no great example with which to recruit others. Most stammer, cower, or even scream and run. Years of simply doing what they are told has left them unable to comprehend the depths of this deception, and they flee like true cowards when I shine the light of this glorious truth upon them.
I typically allow my own majestic dong to sway freely in the breeze, untethered by the false ideals of a society manipulated by the greed of a few. My nethers owe their warmth not to the robotic looms of a dusty factory halfway across the world, but rather to the hearty sproutings of pubis that leap forth energetically from my loins, strong as steel and yet silky-smooth. My genitalia and I are free, proud, and self-sufficient.
True, the idea of idea of dozens of Asian women working themselves to death in sweatshops to create stylish undergarments for me is not without a certain appeal, but I heroically resist the temptation to indulge myself. For my freedom, like my penis, cannot be contained by mere cloth, but must burst out from this flimsy constriction to grow and to waggle where it is wont—to hell with any pathetic little peek-a-boo opening granted us by those who would pretend magnanimity to the tortured masses. It must cast about and toss its seed wherever it may, in hopes that something shold take root and grow.
Readers, I know you sit now before your screen with penises hewn uncomfortably to your thighs by tightie-whities, or else tender breasts smooshed back and succulent nipples flattened by the cruel whimsy of a bra, or even sphincters harassed by the discomfiting rub of a wedgied thong. Know that I do not look down on you for this, although as ever you still disgust me for other, unrelated reasons.
You, readers, are what I call “peopleeps”—a witty mash-up I have constructed from the words “people” and “sheeps”. For, like sheeps, you peopleeps are easily led astray by Big Underwear wolves, who would devour you whole. And like people, you are people—of a certain class, at least.
Know, readers, that I shall be your shepearerd (“shepherd” + “shearer”), in that I will lead you stupid peopleeps away from the evil wolves-in-peopleeps clothing of Big Underwear, and will shear from you the reins of your unwieldy undergarments. Ladies first.
We shall air out Victoria’s “secret” to the world like dirty laundry!
We shall throw the “fruit” of the loom to the side of the road, and laugh that its rotted flesh is eaten by worms!
We shall “Hanes”… this… uh… fuck you Hanes I will burn your fucking offices down.
So, reader? Will you stay content to live within the narrow confines drawn by your panty lines? Will you simply roll over and continue to sleep dormant, feet up in your banana hammocks?
I am Shaun. I wear no underwear. And I am free.
IF THERE is any one thing that you should take away from this site, it is that—as the greatest man alive—even my most half-baked notion is greater than the sum total of all thoughts you have had, or will ever have. Though not the thoughts that you’re right having now, since you are now reading this and, therefore, must presently be thinking of me. Good job.
But regardless of such technicalities, by way of illustration I have compiled a list of the first twenty-five thoughts to come to my brilliant mind. As it happened, only after typing them out did I realize that they all involved things I wanted to do to Natalie Portman.
Each of these thoughts, though it flickered only briefly through my mind on its way to the next incredible revelation, is worthy of great study by you, reader. And so, let’s begin:
1. The jackhammer, the dirty sanchez, the angry pirate, the cleveland steamer, the unctuous rhinocerous, the redemptive bifurcator, and the exotic–though possibly apocryphal–“French style.”
2. Reassure her that her overall aesthetic appeal more than makes up for her lack of curves.
3. Implants. Bitch needs curves.
4. Bring her to an autograph signing, but have her refuse to sign her name as anything but “Herman Melville III, Esq”.
5. Cook dinner together. One of us will playfully toss a pinch of flour onto the other. Then the other will counter with a handful of the stuff. This will escalate into a full-scale flour battle, the showers of powder culminating with a laughing Natalie dumping an entire bag of it on my head. So then I top that by punching her in her laughing fucking face.
6. Convince her to adopt a starving African child with me, then watch the look on her face when it arrives in the mail and she suddenly realizes that most Africans are black.
7. Insist that I don’t really want her to come to bed with her hair in elaborate Queen-Amidala-like coiffures, but still bring it up surprisingly often.
8. Just talk. Talk until the sun goes down and the moon comes up–until time is meaningless. Talk until we reach a level of understanding that transcends the paltry niceties that are all that can be exchanged by those who have never loved each other and been of one mind, body, and heart.
8. Haha, no, just kidding! That last #8 was just a joke. The real #8 is—um, I dunno… slap her in the face with my cock or something, I guess.
9. Purchase a large henhouse, then make her live in it with numerous and vicious roosters. Over the weeks and months of training and feeding on corn, she will gain a preternatural, near-psychic ability to communicate with our gamefowl. Then, one fateful day, we shall stride into a cockfight, arm-in-arm, she bedecked in mink and I with my top-hat. While I busy myself placing bets, she will corner our fighting fowl to victory. The wealth we amass by night’s end will allow me to retire into such luxury such that I will need to wear two monocles. Then, and only then, will she at long last have earned her self-proclaimed nickname, “The Cockwhisperer”.
10. Stuff peanut butter up one perfect nostril and strawberry jam up the other, then lay on the ground directly under her with my mouth open while she blows out her nose as hard as she can. Or, if I’m feeling indulgent, the same as above but with nutella and chocolate syrup. Sinful!
11. Lesbian makeout session. I’ll put on a wig and pretend to be her. She can pretend to be Mila Kunis.
12. Slowly step up behind her, lean forward, and whisper in her ear, “Are you studying for a role as a carpenter? ‘Cuz you got… a sweet adze!” She will turn around, gasp, and blush with delight at my piquant flattery. And in that moment… she will be mine. Oh, she will be mine.
13. Anal. Hard, fast, and brutal, while she screams like a goddamn banshee. She’s pretty small, so she can probably fit her arm in me up to the elbow.
14. Stage a full re-enactment of 1989’s multi-Oscar winner Glory with me playing the Matthew Broderick part and Natalie, in a bravura performance, playing my faithful troops. She can settle her long-standing beef with Morgan Freeman by showing him up, whereas I can finally show that worthless Broderick fucker how it’s done right.
15. Take her Oscar statue, cross out “Natalie Port” and write “Shaun, The”. If she wishes to ask any favors of me, she must write it out—neatly, in print—on an index card and place it before the statue, along with a frosty mug of Mountain Dew and a bag of Doritos, of any flavor but that wretched Cool Ranch.
16. Go kayaking! Nothing to do with her, really, but I’ve always wanted to try it, and it seems like it’d be more fun with someone else.
17. Two in the pink, one in the stink.
18. One in the pink, two in the stink. Impossible, you say? Well! Not for me, I reply.
19. Take whole fistfuls of her beautiful hair into my hands, shove it against my face, and breathe in: in, in, in until my lungs are going to explode; in until my eyes roll back and my lids flutter; in until my mind is so overwhelmed by such a powerful dose of Vidal Sassoon that I have no choice but to fall into a deep, deep sleep. Awakening refreshed, though perhaps a tiny bit delirious, I will find a clean pair of pants and walk with a bounce in my step for the rest of the day.
20. Fabricate a tremendous slingshot between two trees, fetch a helmet and aviator goggles, and see just how far academy award-winning ammunition can fly.
21. Go shopping for new china together. She will of course dance about from store to store, continually exhilarated by so many attractive selections. I will follow gamely at first, but in the end only sullenly respond to her inquires regarding the inlaid fine china versus the rose patterned bone china with monosyllabic grunts. After some harsh words, we will go home with the bone china (obviously) and despite some initial chilliness, I will eventually trick her into having makeup sex. In the end our relationship will be all the stronger for it.
22. Make a fortune pimping her out to horny internet weirdos. There’s some sick people out there.
23. Tell her that Natalie Hirshlag is also a beautiful name, and that her career would doubtless have followed the same trajectory even without the less obsequiously semitic pseudonym. Then LOL.
24. Work together as a husband-wife scientific team, just like Pierre and Marie Curie. After she dies from radiation poisoning, I will sweep the Nobel Prize on a sympathy vote.
25. Make her speak with a British accent so I can pretend that she is Keira Knightley.
By now my incredible intellect has become bored with the merest mention of Miss… what’s-her-face. Freeman? You see—I scarcely remember.
I urge you to review this list frequently, for each entry is worthy of careful study and memorization. This shall be to you as Moses’ commandments were to the Israelites. Come to think of it, had these twenty-five replaced those ten, inculcating a worship of Shaun over that of Zeus or whatever, innumerable deaths from religious wars and strife could have been avoided. And in particular, cool Ranch Doritos would never have been created.
See? A better world for us all.