Thursday, December 27, 2012

What It Means to be A Man


You shouldn’t probably be reading this if you don’t have an all-consuming penis dangling between your legs. Because only if you have one of those can you understand the concept of what it is to be a man; only then will you be capable of realizing why a man has been established, historically, as the head of every family; only then will you be bestowed with the sense to fully fathom the concept of honor and its extreme significance in the life of a man; then, and only then, will you be able to comprehend why, in order to save the honor of a family or a tribe or a caste, we men are willing to go to the strenuous lengths of stabbing a woman forty six times or shooting her twice in the head.
                 It’s tough living around women, whether they are mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, nieces, girlfriends, or wives. And I’m not talking about constantly having to worry about the toilet seats; I’m talking about how these women assume that they can just go ahead and think on their own and do stuff that they like without considering the ramifications their actions would have on their families, especially the men in their families. I blame it on the immoral culture of today’s world where certain miscreants are trying to spread a propaganda stating that women are actually equal to men. That’s just stupid.
                Pakistan seems to be harboring a lot of these audacious women who think, ludicrous as it may sound, that they can just act on their own will. I know, it shocks me as well. There was one case where a woman’s audacity transcended boundaries of consciousness to bring shame upon her husband and her family. Her husband had a dream in which she was having an affair with a strange man who was half robot half accountant. Clearly, his wife was cheating on him with some mutated creature from the future. The husband immediately dressed up, left the brothel and headed back home to his infidel wife. Since he didn’t want to wake up his wife who went to bed on an empty stomach after she had waited till late night for her husband to arrive, he decided that it would be appropriate if he just poured some kerosene on her and set her ablaze. After she was charred to death, my fellow man was able to breathe a sigh of relief. His honor had been restored.
              Another major problem is the whores found all over the world including India who think they have the right to feel attracted towards a man of their choice, and even go on and marry him. Marrying a person who is not the smelly old guy, who has already been “married” five to seven times, that her family chooses for her? Can you believe the nerve of that slut? How hard is it for her to understand that her life is not hers to be lived? Traditionally, in such cases a family’s honor is rehabilitated by hurling some acid on the girl’s face, disfiguring her for life so she’ll be reminded of the ugly whore that she is. But if the bitch goes over the line and has sex, or gets alleged of having had sex, before she gets married to the man of her family’s choice then she would have to be either stabbed in her throat till she can’t spit any more blood or shot in the back of her head in front of her entire community. At least then they ought to learn that there is no greater shame than a broken hymen. Besides, such shame associated with a family will make it much harder for the men in the family to get into the pants of other virgin girls.
               There’s yet another type who brings shame to her family, and these bitches are probably the most irresponsible ones of the lot. I’m talking about those shameless sluts who let themselves get raped by decent god-fearing men. You would think that the least these tramps could do to not shame their families is avoid getting raped, but, no, they just walk around tempting good men with their tits and their asses and they get raped. Any community that would be willing to not reward such careless behavior with a blade through the rape victim’s neck or kicks to her face and crotch till she bleeds to death is, I’m sorry to say, uncouth and uncultured.
                Maybe it’s fine for the morally scanty women in America to go around shaming their families as they please by doing what they want with their lives but at least in India we have to do whatever we can to protect the honor of men and to preserve our rich cultural heritage of being assholes to the women around us. And, so, the next time you notice that a woman- be it your mother who has raised you with all her love and strength or your sister who would do anything to protect you or your wife who yearns for your love every second- does something that she wishes to do, you don’t even need to think twice before capping that bitch. And since in India we are all brothers and sisters we men have the inherent right to kill any woman- that means I can shoot your mother- in order to protect our honor and then term it an ‘honor killing’. Reputation, not relationship, is what matters to us men the most. Women just need to accept the truth that we men are the ones who keep the sanity and morality of this world in tact. And if we weren’t special then God wouldn’t have given us the uniquely remarkable ability to pee standing up.

You've Got Mail - Christ


Dear Me-ians (think about it :) Pretty clever, eh?) And Rest,             
I’ve got quite a few things on my list that I have to go over with you. Firstly, tragedy struck us today morning at ten o clock when Santa Claus died of an extreme syphilis-gonorrhea combination affliction. He caught it from Rudolph the red assed reindeer. PSYCH!! I was just messing around. Santa is still alive.  I love that red fat bastard. He does have the syphilis-gonorrhea combination affliction though. That has been known to happen when you slide down too many chimneys in the same night if you get my drift. And as a result, I’ll be couriering everybody’s gifts to their homes this time. So, if you don’t get the useless shit you asked for this year, don’t whine to Santa or me, whine to FedEx.

              I don’t particularly like celebrating my birthday. One of the reasons is because the parties in heaven suck. I mean, shit, what’s a birthday party with just eleven people?! And Gandhi won’t even let anybody eat meat. Talking about thrusting your beliefs upon somebody else. I’m glad none of my followers are like that. So, anyway, that’s why if I ever feel like partying hard I just hop down to hell and hang out a little while. Say what you want about Hitler but that Nazi motherfucker knows how to throw one hell of a fucking party. “Ich liebe Hackfleisch”. Yeah!

               Another reason I don’t want to be reminded of my birthday is because of my age. I mean, shit, you humans freak out when you hit thirty; imagine what it is to be over two thousand years old. Although, the popular opinion up here is that I don’t look a day over one thousand and seventy. To be honest, I owe it to all to healthy food and dedicated working out. Plus an occasional facelift doesn’t hurt anyone. PSYCH!! Just kidding. I’m in heaven, not Holly-fucking-wood.

               Birthdays are often occasions to reflect on and reminisce about things past. I was never someone who looked out for the future. I tried to make each day as useful as possible and better as many people as possible. In retrospect, I feel like such a douchebag for being so reckless in my behavior. When I gave up my life for the rest of you, I did it so that you’ll learn the significance of selflessness, love, and sacrifice; I even foolishly hoped you would all become better people. Instead, some of you assholes got together and devised a big fat hoax (in my name!) to control the lives of others and exploit it to your advantage; and the rest of you suckers let them get away with it. The aforementioned lines are not just true for me but some of my other comrades up here in heaven. In fact, both Krishna and Muhammad helped me write those lines because they feel the same way about those who run around chanting their names. You morons down there have no idea how pissed off we three are because of your stupid ignorant behavior since forever. Fuck! I promised myself I wouldn’t get too emotional on my birthday. Damn it! But it’s ok. It’s all right. I’m not angry; I’m just a little dented, cardiac wise.

             Speaking of things you people down there are doing wrong, I’d like a few things about the way you celebrate my birthday changed. I mean, don’t take this personally or anything but frankly speaking I’m kind of bored with the whole Christmas tree idea. Hell, it’s just a fucking tree for Christ’s My sake! With some glittery shit on it. It doesn’t really say anything about me. I would much rather prefer if you guys put up something bold, something adventurous, maybe some midget skeletons. Yeah, that’s right, midget skeletons. I think I’m onto something truly groundbreaking here. Just stay with me here! Get some midget skeletons, hang it in your front yard, inside your home, wherever you want to bring that holiday mood, and decorate it with some buffalo balls. Yeah, that’s right, buffalo balls. Or even bull balls. I don’t really care about that. Just make sure those midget skeletons look really Christmassy. But it has to be either buffalos or bulls. No bison balls. I hate bison balls. So remember, yes to buffalo balls and bull balls. But a big fat no to bison balls.

               And one more thing, when you are doing skits and stuff about my birth make sure you choose a cute baby to play me. I have seen some ugly-ass babies play me over the years. I don’t want that. If you can’t get a cute baby that’s human get one of those animatronic babies, I don’t care. But don’t rope in some shit-ass baby who looks like something that came out of Paula Abdul’s ass.

               Well, that’s it then, I guess. Hopefully you’ll have a great new year as well. Unless you get blown up by some psycho with an underwear bomb, or slain by some preschooler, or screwed over by your friends, family, and lovers. Or get plain depressed and end your lives. Anyways, Merry Me-Mas (think about it :) Pretty clever, eh?) to all of you. I’ve got a Fuhrer Partay to attend. Now, where did I leave my swastika?! PSYCH!!
From,
Christ.