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.

Take Life by the Balls

Need I ssy More today :D

*shudder* speed

I felt anxiety and fear unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I started to question my own reality; the way objects look began to seem extremely disturbing, people started to look disturbingly alien (as if it was the first time I had ever laid eyes on a human being), I felt as if I was realizing something humans aren’t supposed to realize. I was beginning to see things working behind the scenes, and it was frightening as hell. It’s kind of like that splinter in your mind that reality isn’t what you’ve always thought it to be, and now that you know the truth, it will haunt you forever. I have trouble even relating to my memories, my past, my identity, who I thought I was and who I wanted to be. For the first time in my life, I felt afraid. Of what, I have no idea. But it’s this feeling, its deep within me. I think I might have to stop my mind from transcending, for good if I ever want to feel normal again. Its de-personalization and de-realization to a degree that really frightens me, I’ve never felt so alien, I never knew anyone could feel so alien and alone. But now I’m scared of something I can’t even put into words, and I’ve broken down a couple times trying to explain it to people.But I can't. There is no words to describe it or maybe I haven't yet learnt the language yet.

I am climbing out the well of delusional reality and into the sunlight. I might either find myself or become Batman.

Filth and Pachas Paisa

People despise me saying I got a perverted filthy mind
Believe you me this verse is gonna be an unhealthy find
I spend my time snapping pictures of women with healthy behinds
I was fourteen when I started exhibiting these signs
I promise there’s no exaggeration in these lines
Used to carry my camera to my auntie’s gym
And click every time I saw this one blondie’s bum
But butts were plenty in that gym it seemed like a bum symposium
To me it felt like those women were actually posing them
So my trusted camera could capture those round cushions
To me this is an art, one that provides me sound visions
And it ain’t like I expose these ladies’ faces
All I do is take photos of their amazing bases
I knew I was made for this and I started branching out
I stared making money using this enchanting route
People really loved the photos I was handing out
Haunted coffee shops for girls sitting in or standing out
Sneaked into fashion shows to click the cheeky models
Doors or security couldn’t stop me from seeking more belles
I have even snapped a few secret celebrity pictures
When it comes to my work I lay down no strictures
The only golden rule I care is customer satisfaction
But that doesn’t mean I take clients like Michael Jackson
My camera doesn’t capture children or even the male race
I won’t compromise on that even if it means I won’t be able to save face
Amongst my best sales are the butts of JLO and Britney Spears
I don’t have to mention those aren’t a pair of itsy bitsy rears
I caught them both at a bar trying to drink free beers
They were both dressed in dresses whiter than the head of Richard Gere
Nothing’s more ironic than Britney Spears in white
And ain’t nothing more erotic than Jen Lopez in tights
Then there’s Anna who’s hot as long as it’s no tennis fight
Her pictures sell great even on her most heinous night
Her butt’s clearer in my pix than the ones on any website
You must be thinking I wrote just to advertise my collection
That’s not true; I have another reason for this method selection
Let me fast forward to my worry; let me tell you all about it
I hope you’re in no hurry; you’re a writer so I doubt it
The problem has everything to do with my latest client
He’s a good customer and I’ve always been reliant
But his latest need has totally wrecked my peace
He wants a photo of the butt of my girlfriend, Denise,
I’m left stumped, can’t figure out how I’m to act
Never say no to my clients is my primal business pact
This situation has landed me in a very tough spot
Even a word against my girl is a bad enough thought
But backing out of my job isn’t one of my functions,
At the same time I’m being overwhelmed with compunction
To do or not to do that is the question
I want you to answer that with a good suggestion
And don’t think me stupid I do know the obvious answer
Forget about asking me to hire some helping hands, sir,
I know I could just employ someone and give him the task
But I work alone and don’t take help from any wimpy ass
If anybody’s snapping my girl then I’m the one to do it
The issue is whether or not I will afterwards rue it
Also there’s a chance that Denise will finally find out
Don’t want things to change, they’re perfectly fine now
All I’ve told her is that I work as a photographer
She is unaware that I’m really a buttock sniffer
I so damn wish this client would get off of her
This guy is more obstinate than Adolph Hitler
I could turn him down, say no to the horny chump
But he’s loaded almost as much as Donald Trump
Nobody knows about this world in which I exist
Mother nor sister know this is how I bought our Lexus
So reply fast I need a way out this mess
Make sure it’s one where I suffer least distress
Some plan where I’ll end up with the girl and cash
Not some stupid one which will make me whirl and crash
Help me out I’ll definitely make it your time’s worth
I’ll send you photos of any bum you want on this earth.

                                                                                     Huge Pervert, New Delhi

Dr. Pachas paise replies:

I’m not suited to judge your mind’s condition
Although I think your brain’s out of commission
Your job definitely isn’t for the weak-hearted
It stinks like the air when a dead sheep farted
At first I imagined someone was pulling a prank
The more I read the more it stank
You’re nothing but the lowest form of paparazzi
You wanna be a hero, go slap a Nazi
You’re only fooling yourself sounding artsy-fartsy
Taking pictures of women with their asses half seen
You’re the biggest Jack of all the asses I’ve seen
I’m very much shocked that you’re still alive and clicking
But listen real close your clock is ticking
Now or later you’re going to end up hurt
Sorry for the tone generally I’m not this curt
But I’m telling you man you’ve almost reached the brink
You better call it quits and bleach your kink
Best thing would be for you go see a shrink
The storm will hit you and your ship will sink
And stop calling what you do as work
It just proves you’re a humongous jerk
What you’re doing is a punishable offence
The price you might pay could be very immense
You’re hurting people’s families in a sense
You’re preying on unsuspecting women having innocence
Your habits seem to have eroded that aspect of inner sense
Now when your girl could be the victim you feel the sting
For the women whom you victimize it’s pain you bring
But I see the issue for you is an entirely different thing
I first got the wrong idea from your marks of ink
I pictured you had finally learned your lesson
Figured your perverseness would finally lessen
It isn’t love or anything close that leaves you distraught
Your heart holds nothing but various sleazy thoughts
Concern for your girl isn’t what is upsetting you
You just don’t want her to be suspecting you
You don’t care if someone treats her badly
You’re willing to make money off her gladly
As long as you’re in the clear and not involved directly
You’re playing up to a false image you’ve erected
Just by delegating the task you think you’re free from blame
You’ve pawned your morals for attaining money and fame
The matter at hand is not about being true to your clients
What you’re doing is against God and an act of defiance
You belong with rats though you might dream of lions
Exploiting innocents is what you judge as triumph
You cannot cross bridges until and unless you try ‘em
If you loved your girl you wouldn’t have needed my help
You would have told your client to go straight to red hell
And you wouldn’t have lied and side-lived a secret life
Your personality sucks, it’s worse than being a stereotype
You have wasted your life lusting after fame and money
You adopted vulgar means and that’s the same as demonic
However God is one who forgives even the worst
Don’t you want a clear mind before you’re in your hearse?
Death can capture everything but it can’t capture hope
God can save your neck even if the devil latches on it with rope
All that advice is under assumption you have plans to become changed
Although from your letter you sounded more than deranged
So if you’re planning to stick to your lifestyle then I have a request
I know you find it proper in you what others find grotesque
So be the proper professional and make good your promise
You promised that my time will bring me photographic profits
I think I know just what would please my most common sense
Naked pictures of buttocks that belong to your mom and sis.

Modus Molestation

Imagine this. A huge statue of a tall dark handsome Indian man. Located in a central spot somewhere in our country, a place where our countrywomen, tourists, foreigners, and visitors to India can have a deep long look at it. The statue stands tall towering well above the monuments around it. Safe in the man’s right hand raised high into the air almost touching the clouds hovering over it is a tablet with the inscription “Woman is God” on it. Below the man’s waist wrapped in his left hand is a huge concrete erection that’s pointing up towards the blue skies and two gigantic balls, which have inscribed on their vast surface the words:

“Give me your blonde, your brunette,

Your unsuspecting bitches yearning to get raped,

The wretched sluts whose pussies I’ll forcibly make wet,

   Send these, the innocent, the underage, the elderly, regardless of how they are shaped

                                       I lift my horny chauvinistic cock and rape every single cunt I can get.”

It’s been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that two out of every three Indian men (the third is a eunuch) find it physiologically impossible to refrain from molesting at least four women every week. So, we might as well have a statue announcing to the whole world that east or west, we’ll do our best to molest.

Much like everything else in this world our modus molestation has also evolved. A decade or so ago, our best men toiled in harsh working conditions (like crowded buses, jam-packed queues, markets, poorly chaperoned nieces’ houses, movie theatres, and churches) using simple techniques (like the ass-graze, the sleep-grope, the accidental boob jab, the inadvertent thigh caress, the trip and grab for support bit, and the misguided peck on the cheek) that often gave the desired result but in a degree lesser than expected. With the passage of time, things have changed, sexual repression has increased, carnal depravity has grown, and we, the Indian men, have developed far more impressive and efficacious methods of molesting women. We’ve become way more adept at what we do, much more meticulous, and thorough professionals.

The Delhi Molestation event that transpired not long ago (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ea1h_M6AFW0) marks a new milestone in the Indian Men’s molestation track record. Never has our country felt prouder since the release of Mallika Sherawat’s Murder.

We hear all the time about corporate tycoons making a mark outside their own country using their business acumen and their grandfathers’ fortunes. Indian men, too, have begun expanding their activities to non-Indian pussies. There was a time, when due to social constraints and a narrow outlook, we were restricted to molesting only the women in our country. Now, thanks to globalization and exaggerated advertising about Indian tourism, we are presented with several opportunities to forcibly extend our cocks to unwilling foreign cunts. Be it a housewife was stripped naked, gang-raped and battered in full public glare in Tripura(http://www.ndtv.com/article/india/woman-stripped-naked-gang-raped-in-tripura-308710) or the molestation of an American woman by a messenger of God (http://www.ibnlive.com/news/american-tourist-alleges-molestation-at-pushkar-temple/55960-3-1.html) the quality of work and the ease with which the cases are swept under the carpet to brighten the tricolor surface of our nation are nothing short of stupendous.

A lot of people feel that molesting a woman is different from raping her. If you ask a true hardcore Indian man you would realize that the two are as different as a Bollywood actress and a Red-Street prostitute, or horseshit and donkeyshit, or a poor wife with great tits and a rich wife with no ass. When you rape a woman, you complete the job; you finish what you started; there is closure. Molesting someone, on the other hand, is more of an initiation course before you perform in the big league of rape. It’s like the chicken broth before a three-course dinner. Often, several men have a taste of the soup and take a raincheck on the main course. But you know that sooner or later those soup tasters will come back to bite into the main dinner.

It is undeniably true that none of the commendable progress of the Indian molesters and rapists would have been possible if it weren’t for the police, the court, and the various state governments. And, undoubtedly, the biggest token of gratitude goes to the word “alleged” that the media and the officials efficiently throw around when it comes to sex offences. Thanks to that word a giant beast with big ears, tusks, a trunk and pillar-like legs will remain an “alleged” elephant unless proven by a court of law.

For some reason women don’t quite enjoy getting molested and raped as much as the men who commit those acts do. I’m personally quite baffled by this lukewarm response from the ladies. But hey, to each their own. However, one thing you ladies need to know about Indian men is that we never say no (except when the wives ask us if we’re having an affair). Regardless of the mediocre level of enjoyment you derive from our manly acts, we will strive to molest and rape all women, Indian, non-Indian, alien, and feminist until the end of time. If you don’t want to be involved in it, then keep your ass inside your home. Might seem a little regressive but that’s our best offer. Get out and get molested. Stay home and save your ass. Well, unless your male relatives at home wish to rape you. Allegedly, of course.