People always ask me “how was your day?” this is a blanket statement. I usually shoot off something like “Everything was going great until I woke up. It all went down hill from there.” I stood in the shower angrily staring at the water nozzle. It just kept smacking me in the face and I got madder and madder. Well, it’s really hard to just come right out here and immediately starting saying funny shit. I mean, it’s tough. There’s so much shit hanging over your head… I bet right now somebody has a beer bottle cocked back going “if this mother fucker doesn’t say something funny soon …” his friend is of course going “nah man, that aint right…we can’t do that. We need to stop the violence…” then a couple of minutes pass and moral decency deteriorates as the show vainly plods forward: “We’ll get him after the show”. It’s just hard to be funny on command. How would you feel if someone came up to you with a gun and said “BE FUNNY MOTHER FUCKER! NOW!” What the fuck would YOU do? Go “so a man walks into a bar&.” ? Hell no! Ah, yes, anyway. About myself: I’ve always been really big on genetics and shit like that. You know. DNA, fascinating shit there. Did you know if lightning struck semen an entirely different life form would be created? *looks around* neither did I. Some people will believe anything. “WE’RE DOING GREAT THINGS IN IRAQ!” …anyway. I wonder how often lightning could strike sperm anyway…. How would you get the sperm out at the right time? I mean, shit. What are the odds? It’d be pretty funny to see, though. Just imagine walking down the street… and seeing lightning strike a puddle of semen. As a matter of fact, you’d be hard pressed to find a puddle of semen… unless you’re in Detroit. Because in Detroit … kids splash in puddles of sperm like they were puddles formed by the innocent rain that comes to cleanse the filth occasionally. But imagine it… you’re walking down the street, its 5am and it’s storming. You just finished watching “Patch Adams” at the dollar theatre… and you see lightning strike a huge puddle of spunk. What would you do? Perhaps Tina turner would come out and go “WHAT’S LOVE GOT TO DO WITH IT?” Or, in reality, spunk would splash on your face and before dying you’d go “God damn, that fucking sucked.” Cause of death: electric sperm. I always thought it was incredible, you know with my sperm fascination, that everything in this world you see is the direct result of a dick in action. It’s odd. I was shot from a cock. You were shot from a cock! We were shot from a cock that was shot from a cock, et cetera. We were all shot from cocks. And I was shot from a cock with a cock from which to shoot more… beings with cocks. Cock after cock after cock. The whole of humanity could summarily be described as “beings with cocks” I just think it’s incredible to note that every single thing you’ve ever seen is the direct result of a penis getting ready to shoot a load whilst in a vagina…

I never really had many friends growing up. I mean, really, who wants to sit beside some phallus obsessed zit faced lanky fuck that continuously feels it necessary to scream “WE CAME OUT OF DICKS!” at everyone that passes by? That’s right. I’d just be sitting at lunch thinking of something to do, and I’d go “you know what would be really funny? Let’s tape a plastic horse saddle (the kind that comes with toy horses) on a rat and make some reigns for it and put it on somebody’s porch! People behind me would be going “is he still fucking talking? I’m going to kick this kid’s ass pretty soon here” I’d have to turn around and elaborate: “imagine some being small enough and intelligent enough to ride a rat. Not only did it ride it, but it would be the direct result of its death. The guy would come out and look at it and his brain would just fucking break. He’d probably think some sort of lawn gnome was in some sort of battle and had to abandon his gallant steed in order to elude the forces from which he was fleeing! Hahaha!” They’d just kind of look at me, and then attack. “HE SAID LIKE 3 WORDS I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND! GET HIM!” I just always liked doing shit like that just to fuck with people. My favorite thing to do as a kid was to make a doctor s appointment… and then call in the next day and cancel. I’d get on the phone and go “Sorry doc, I can’t make it… I’m sick.” I was an odd child. I always liked telling stories and making people laugh, too bad I never pursued that though. I grew up in such a little hick town; there was nothing to do around there. So we had to entertain ourselves. We didn’t even have talkin’ pictures or cars. No armpit perfume, no moral sexual conduct. Just horses and buggies and fat sheriffs sitting around drinking from jugs labeled “XXX” day in day out watching the dukes of hazzard on his 8 inch black and white TV. That’s right. I always really liked fucking with people, hardcore. Me and my friends would just get together and plot someone’s untimely demise. Everybody from the north just ignorantly assumes we’re all toothless yokels that sit on our porches with shotguns waiting on minorities to pass in order to beat them with bibles. Hey! That guy’s Muslim! KICK HIS ASS! Some day when I travel the country… I’m going to film every pair of dogs having sex that i can.. And when i have children, and my children shoot children from their natural Winchesters, I’m going to invite them over and make them watch all the dogs fucking. It’ll be hilarious, they’ll think I’m senile and they’ll go home and be like “grandpa Brandon’s making us watch dogs fuck again!”

Everything pisses me off. I walk outside and sit on the porch. The sky is so fucking blue you just look up at it and go “how much bluer could this fucking sky be?” the answer is NONE. My pupils dilate and my eyes try to turn my brain against me. There are birds chirping, children rolling in luscious fields of ardent green grass chasing butterflies. The trees all sway happily. This is total bullshit and I am now in total horror. I look at a passing puppy, and hope that a passing greyhound hits his happily yipping ass. Some kids play in the road. Too bad they’re too smart to run from the cars. I began to perspire and feel like I’m about to panic attack. “Look what you did now, asshole.” my eyes are now talking shit about me to my brain behind my back, “Wait until next time you talk, and you are SO gonna stutter. We might even make you say you’re queer. Ha-ha! Take that, shit. We’ll make you call your next girlfriend by a GUYS name. Oh, that’s great Leroy! Harder! Black the brown eye, bitch. Don’t fuck with us, little man. We control your dick.” I usually have two independent thought sections going on in my head. Sometimes more. You can tell. Even now, while my right brain is trying to sleep, my left brain – the stupid side – is thinking up half baked schemes to ruin my life. He’s going “Yeah, you tell them about me. You’ll wake up at the supermarket riding a dildo rubbing jiffy lube on your tits.” Oh shit, he woke the right brain up. “Would you fucking keep it down? I’ve got to work tonight you sniveling little shit!” They bicker like this all the time. The left side is basically a moron. He’s the one that made me stick a fork in the electrical socket as a child… 8 times. He’s the one that made me explore where the passageway that is a cow’s asshole led. The left side laughs at Happy Gilmore. The right side laughs at Monty Python. The left usually makes me stutter as I talk and behind my words; the right brain will look over at him with his shifty eyes and go “good job, moron. Perhaps a bit of eloquence would afford you the liberty of not having to return to pounding your cock alone in your dank bedroom at night to black beauty’s 5.” the left brain, cross eyed and excited goes, “black beauty’s 5 is out? Suh-weeet!” he seemed to say. Yes, it’s a he. He has a name and a cute back-story. His name is Reggie; he grew up alone in the cold dark suburbs of ohio eating paint chips off the floor while his mother injected cheeseburger grease into her ass while watching Springer. His dad, and uncle, would shout out him to go inside and play while he hosed her down outside. Then he was on his way to the general mill store for more feed, for the chickens. Only to never return. Poor Tommy. The hippocampus usually has to come down from upstairs shaking a newspaper going “do you assholes want the medulla oblongata to wake up? He has shit to do!”

I always enjoyed testing shit on people. Ever, during sex with a girl, pull your dick out really quickly and then stab it hard into their asshole just to watch their eyes bulge? First time I had sex, I really wasn’t thinking ahead, I thought it’d be funny. I didn’t mean to cum in that exact instance, either. You know, something to tell the kids. Who knew that’d be when her dad walked in? The morning sun was rising in the east, and already the slaughterhouse smile of Brittany’s dank vagina had hit my quivering nostrils and had them quelled in fright as they frigidly fought off the smell of death and cigarette butts that permeated from her dank abyss of no return. Hot shit, I’m getting laid today! I always figured my life was a life long comedy perpetrated by some god. I was taking a shit the other day … wearing sponge bob underwear and a cowboy hat. Singing kumbaya and strumming on my acoustic guitar. I had to pause, you know, to take in the moment. I looked up and said “you’re probably laughing your ass off, aren’t you?” Silly me, gods don’t have assholes. Or do they? That’s one for the ages, there. Does god have an asshole? If so; has he shit? If when, when? If where, then where? The year: 2004. The place: America.

Speaking of gods … I’m sure we all know of the story of the immaculate birth of Jesus. Right? But how do we REALLY know if it’s true? How do we know Mary was a virgin? I can see it now: Mary comes home, it’s 5 am, she’s a little drunk on fortified wine (hahaha), and of course Joseph is pissed about this. 3 months later she discovers she is pregnant, and Joseph also discovers that it’s been longer than that since they last had sex. Mary had to think of a plan, and think of it fast. So, she calls up her friend Wanda, and goes “Hey, that wine you got for us was incredible! 3 — Very good year! But anyway, do you still have those costumes we wore to Stonefest ‘5? Well, I need them and I need them fast. I’m pregnant, and Joe doesn’t know. So I told him god got me pregnant and of course he’s a little skeptical, so i’m calling you to find out if you can get those 3 guys we met at Sandals unlimited and get them to dress in those fancy clothes and meet us at the manger, say around 7-ish. “What if it’s too suspicious? How will we get this past Joseph?” “Gold” Mary said with a chuckle, “Have them bring gold, and tell them to refer to the coming child as the son of god while they’re here. Yeah, that star gag might actually work. But, should they say the gold is on behalf of all of them? We don’t want it to be suspicious. Ok, I’ve got it! Have one bring gold, have one bring frankincense and have the other bring mrr. Joseph doesn’t know what that shit is, so he won’t suspect that I do either. Or at least he wouldn’t suspect me lying to get these products! Haha, so – yeah, call and let me know something. Bye bye!”

“Joe, honey, could you book us a deluxe manger at mangers unlimited? Yes, I’ll need hay. Get a camel and a lamb, too. We might have to kill them afterwards. God told me to have it, I don’t know why – but he absolutely insisted!”

It’s a damn good thing that dicks are blind, though. Ever thought of this? Imagine what his little Chinese eye would see in there. “Oh shit, prison of pink and fleshy hell swarming all around me. Master you shall pay! Man who argue with wife all day, gets no peace at night!” they should re-create a theme park to simulate what it’s like to be inside of a vagina. You’d walk inside a pink tunnel and then the air would be sealed off. In the distance you can see a little quivering balloon type thing. Twitching about happily. Then the walls grow tight, and they smush up against your face all hot and clenching. 5 minutes later they call the ambulance. Cause of death: strangled by life-size vagina at Frankie’s fun park. Men spend their entire lives trying to get in there, yet they don’t even know it. It’s subconscious. It is 5 million years of animal instinct. Human instinct cannot be silenced. Unless of course you’re gay. Then it can of course be gagged by hair chemicals and perfume. But, there’s all these phony guys out here telling girls “oh baby, I’m not in it for the sex.” This is 100% bullshit. The only reason a guy says this kind of stuff is because he knows that saying he doesn’t care about sex will actually increase his chance of getting laid. All of our inventions (by men) are the result of human instinct. The result of a man trying to impress a woman just to get his little wiener wet. Einstein’s theory of relativity was written with great ideas, and thoughts; with nothing more than vagina on his subconscious mind. “And this formula of course leads me to summarily conclude that the atoms within an object under you will not allow you to pass through a chair once on its physical surface.” He pauses. Sniffs about like a blood hound. He hits the floor and begins crawling around on all floors sniffing the ground. “Aha, I schmell puss-saaayyyyyy!” That is why boobs look so great. That is why we look at a shit factory and go “god damn, that’s hot! I don’t know why… but it is!” A boob is nothing more than a lump of fat with a nipple. But damn, they’re awesome. I don’t even know why I think they’re so attractive. It is not a product of my rational mind. My upper brain is powerless when it comes to my homo sapien animal instincts.


Published by

Brandon K. Nobles

Brandon is an author, poet and head writer for Sir Swag on YouTube. With 630k subscribers. Since February 2021 he has written for the most important and popular series, News Without the Bulls%!t and the least popular work on the channel, History Abridged. Brandon joined the channel in late January, since then his work has been featured every month in News and History. His novels and works of fiction have also been well received, and he continues to be a proficient and professional chess player. In his spare time he like to catch up on work.

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