Archive for Obsession

The Truth About Sex Addiction.

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 31, 2010 by Buck Frain

So, I finally awoke from my annual turkey-induced Christmas coma to find that my dreams had been shattered. Fuck you very much, God, you fictional fuck! Disillusionment will be the constant companion of the idealist and the romantic and the sad fucking truth of 2010 is that, contrary to my last post, Tiger Woods did not escape for an unapologetic, cashed-up, blokey booze cruise. No! Like a pussy-whipped billionaire soft-cock he checked himself into REHAB for his SEX ADDICTION!!! 

All I can say is FUCK YOU TIGER WOODS YOU PISS-WEAK CUNT!!! I’m sorry folks, sex addiction is not real. Santa Claus, Easter Bunny and the The Tooth Fairy might be for all I know but I’ll tell you 100% sex addiction is a crock of bullshit cooked up three groups of people:

  1. Tight-arse-rich-bastards-sans-integrity trying to minimise the damage of an otherwise costly divorce,
  2. No-sex-getting-loser-douche-bags jealous of the amount of sex other people are getting, and:
  3. Right-wing-churchy-extremists who’d rather everyone think of sexuality as a disease and spend their money in church instead of on good times. 

Don’t believe me, you moaning fucks? Well here’s the real deal: 

  1. We are animals! I know what the book of genesis says but just shove that pile of shit up your arse for one second and look at the less self-aggrandising truth for one cunting moment. We. ARE. Animals. Yes, we’ve got some pretty cool tricks we can do but we are just the latest model chimpanzee.
  2. We are governed by the same rules as all other animals. What this means to the uninitiated is that like any other animal (or plant or fungus for that matter), like any other living thing, our sole purpose for being is to reproduce and pass on our genetic material to another generation. Dress it up anyway you want and take it to church on weekends if it makes you feel better but that is really it. Money? Means to an end! Fame? Means to an end! Lots of degress? Nice house in the suburbs? Playing in a rock band? Virtuous lifestyle helping others? All of them means to the same end – reproduction. Most people mistake this primal drive for a way-more-cool-and-non-freedom-threatening desire for sex but this is just humans over-thinking our own biology and fooling ourselves into believing there’s something more sophisticated going on. There isn’t!
  3. You cannot be ADDICTED to your primary function as a being. You might be able to be addicted to, and even cured of addiction to, a wide variety of things, however, you can’t be cured of being what you are except, that is, by death. 

Sex addiction by definition is completely absurd. Men fuck. It’s the only function we were ever specifically designed to perform. Sucktittygrowfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckdie. That’s the male’s life, the rest is just set dressing – yes, girls, it is that simple and any man who tells you there’s more to it is probably trying to fuck you. I acknowledge that the female life is a little more complex and I certainly won’t presume to sum it up in one sentence, especially seeing as I have my own reason for living to try and protect. 

I’m not saying I don’t believe in love and I’m not saying I don’t believe in marriage or society, however, we need to acknowledge that at least the last two of these are artificial, human constructs. They are flawed and fitting our animal selves into their intellectual sterility seamlessly may require a few more millennia of evolution and/or a rethink of the constructs themselves. In the meantime if, like Tiger, David Duchovny, Michael Douglas and a host of rich-liars-who-can’t-keep-their-dicks-out-of-women-they’re-not-married-to, you have problems with fidelity here are your options: accept it and pay the price …or… stop. There’s no need for a fucking intervention, no need for rehab or therapy, it’s pretty fucking easy, it’s totally fucking binary, fuck whoever you want and deal with the consequences or just fuck who you’re supposed to. The whole notion of addiction here is ridiculous. The only purpose this stupid charade serves is to save money in the divorce settlement by pretending you’re some kind of victim. 

Oh, Your Honour, have pity on me. I just can’t stop fucking all these beautiful women…have mercy on me, I’m the victim here…I just have to have the supermodel threeways…I’m cursed! 

Don’t brag in my court, fucko! Pay the lady for the betrayal and humiliation! 

I am disappointed for men that this is happening. It’s just imasculating for us as a gender. Tiger Woods and all his sex-addicted mates need to man-up and admit it. Yep, sorry baby, I been doin’ a fuckload of fucking. You wanna forgive me in the hope I’ll change  or…would you like to take the cash?

Sure they’d lose a bit of money but they can fucking afford it and what they’re losing in order to save a paltry couple of hundred million dollars is far more precious – manhood. They’re chopping down the proud upstanding cock of their own manhoods in the name of saving money they don’t need. It is so pitifully fucked I’d rather see them euthanased than reduced to such miserable excuses for men! 

If Tiger Woods can’t survive on half a billion dollars and still smile I question whether, despite all the fucking, he really has any balls at all.

Whose Grass Are You Really Cutting?

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 6, 2008 by Buck Frain

I worked late last night. Thankfully, I don’t work 9-5 all the time. I sometimes think the one thing that saves my sanity is that I don’t have a strict routine. Last night I finished up around midnight, got home by 1am. Of course, getting home at that time you don’t want to go to bed straight away, so I sat up and had a glass of wine and watched some TV, knowing I didn’t have to get up too early – all very civilised. 

My bedroom is being torn apart. Jesus, mother and fuck, wha…? I roll over too abrubtly and crack my eyebrow into the corner of the bedside table. ARSE!!! I’m awake. 

Still squinting one eye beneath a hot, smarting brow, I reach for my mobile to check the time. 8:30am? My middle aged neighbour is mowing his lawn, or more specifically the nature strip outside my fence AT 8:30am! BASTARD BASTARD BASTARD!!! Between him and me there’s a wooden fence and a glass sliding door – he might as well be mowing my fucking doona! What the fuck sort of person does this? Who the fuck are these people who have nothing better to do at 8:30am than mow their cunting lawn? This fucker is constantly mowing his lawn. He must have fucking mowed it twice a week every week since I moved in, it’s a miracle there’s any fucking grass left. I’m serious, the mad bastard’s out there every three or four days mowing! What the shitting pissflaps drives a person to obsess like this over a fucking shitty piece of lawn? 

It’s not a golf green. It’s a pissy triangle of lawn on a corner block and a nature strip outside his fence. With water restrictions he hasn’t been allowed to water the shit for years, but arse-rape me with a bag of carrots if the old ballbag’s not out there twice a fucking week trimming the cunting Jesus out of it. I think he must be retired, he’s always at home and only other thing he does is have screaming matches with his wife through the kitchen window. Now, that’s just fucking weird, and that always happens first thing in the morning too. It’s always the fucking same – with him in the garden and her indoors screaming at each other through the closed kitchen window – at least no-one gets hit. They’re Greek so I don’t understand a fucking word of it but I think that may be a blessing. Who the hell wants to know what two people, who’ve been married way too long, scream at each other about? But I do think about it – well, it’s not like I’ve got any choice when it wakes me up and sounds like they’re actually in my house. Part of me really wants to know what they scream about. Maybe I could help. 

Today it came to me. The lawn. It’s a metaphor. They’re an older couple and things have cooled down. She must have a big-ol’-retro-bush, she wants action, but he wants some new-school-pruned-punani. The manic mowing and the frustrated screaming – it’s all part of the same problem. What a thoroughly disgusting revelation – fuck you, brain! But, fuck, that’s what it is, I’m certain of it. The real question is whether they’re actually talking about it. Are they actually yelling at each other about it or do they shout about petty domestic trivialities unaware that the whole problem is a difference of aesthetic tastes in personal grooming and an inability to be sexually open with each other? That’d be a fucking tragedy, an ugly tragedy… but a tragedy nonetheless. If I could solve this I’d be able to get some fuckin’ sleep. But what the fuck could I realistically do? Leave subtle presents in their letter-box? Razors, wax strips, hair removal cream? That’s pretty fuckin’ scary. I’m so fucked off from sleep-deprivation I just want to run out into my yard and shriek at the top of my lungs: For fuck’s sake, SHAVE YOUR FUCKIN’ PUSSY AND LET ME GET SOME SLEEP!!!

Yeah…that could work. It could… On the other hand it could just get me murdered, there’s no explaining that shit away. BASTARD! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST FUCKIN MOW AFTER 10???