“Make a case for men.”
Men have made the case already. You wouldn’t be sitting her without me, and you wouldn’t even be able to take a dignified s~~~ in this world if a man didn’t install your toilet, the running water, enough lighting to wipe your ass, and stock your grocery shelves with toilet paper and tampons.
That’s when she would beg MEN to cut to commercial.
“Synthetic sperm is coming! Soon we won’t need you!”
Great. Let us know when you don’t need our money for child support either.
It can’t come soon enough.
“Men are disgusting!”
Think of how badly women smell and you won’t even feel like eating dinner.
In my day I’ve smelled fishy c~~~s, skunky c~~~s, yeasty c~~~s, p~~~y c~~~s, sweaty c~~~s…too many c~~~s, probably. I’ve inhaled membrane-withering lungfuls of toxic t~~~fumes from vaginas that looked like rats dipped in Vaseline. I’ve borne witness to a stomach-pumping surfeit of swollen, bloody, scabby, mucus-spewing snatches. Too much oozing, malodorous c~~~ caviar, too many hairy hornet’s nests of chickstink. And yet the self-appointed voices of reason assure me that “once you get past the smell, you’ve got it licked.”
How the f~~~ do you get past the smell?
Ooh, that smell. The first thing you’re likely to sniff in this wretched life is a deep, sobbing lungful of your mother’s afterbirth, yet that memory is usually too distant and traumatic to ever have a hope of salvaging. But after one passes the Age of Reason, you aren’t likely to forget the full-frontal face-slap of a rancid pussy, even after extensive psychotherapy. And, if you’re like me, your first indelible whiff of it came via an older friend’s manual digit in the eternal tradition of “Hey, man, smell my finger.”
The older friend’s name was Mike. His girlfriend’s name was Carol. We all wore denim pants and denim jackets. Under a cold nighttime sky set aglow by an aggressively white moon, I sat atop a small concrete wall, waiting for Mike to kiss Carol goodnight. It took a while. He must have rounded first base and headed for third, for after bidding Carol adieu, Mike proudly marched over to me and held his f~~~-you finger an inch under my nostrils. Carol’s afterstench was a heady, almost inebriating snoutful of urine and sea bass. It was there, on that concrete wall, where I concluded that a woman’s vagina could be a place wherein considerable evil dwelt.
Not many years later, in a gesture of male nobility, I was able to proffer my own finger to a younger friend, encouraging him to nasally sample the mucosal femalia from a calamari-redolent Italian girl I’d diddled an hour or so earlier. I had indulged in “heavy petting” with the hairy-lipped wop lass outside her parents’ house in West Philly, dropped her off, and drove deep out into the suburbs-and then took a quick dip in my friend’s backyard pool-before I let him smell my finger. And yet it stank. Strongly.
But perhaps the worst pussy I ever had the displeasure of smelling was attached to an alarmingly overweight woman of Dutch extraction with whom I shacked up during a period when my self-esteem was dangerously low. Once you got past the rolls and rolls of stretchmarked hog fat, there lay her bedraggled pussy, crowned with a sparse reddish thorn bush. Her c~~~ looked like a fat slice of ham swimming in white gravy. Her crotch was a boiling fumarole of noxious emissions, a stinking puddle of snatch-slop. Her discharges were colored a sickly silver, with the gloppy consistency of herring sauce. The smells which emerged from between her bloated, floppy legs ranged from rotted onion to burnt crab to odors which were so fetid, I must force myself to stop thinking of them lest I scream.
If you keep doing what you've always done... you're gonna keep getting what you always got.
Manocalypse 4 years, 10 months ago.
