Category Archives: Feminism

4 Things Women Can Do To Be More Attractive (From A Non-Beta Bitch Male Perspective)

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Most of you girls seem obsessed with the fact that you’re still single and there are no good men left out there who can handle that you’re a strong, independent woman who don’t need no man. By the way, there are—you’re just too much of a stuck-up cunt to realize it. So I’m going to give you some #realtalk girlfriend advice because I don’t give a shit if I offend you or not. It’s not like you were going to fuck me anyway.

1. Shave or trim your fucking pussy.

Just as you’ve been brainwashed by Hollywood to seek out the perfect man who meets an impossible list of standards that the average Joe isn’t capable of reaching, we men have been brainwashed by porn to want a woman with a shaved—or at the very least, neatly trimmed—pussy. No, this isn’t our desire to fuck a prepubescent girl like so many fuzzy-vagina feminist writers want to #hairlesspussyafcionadoshame us into believing. It’s because a shaved pussy, like shaved legs and armpits, looks distinctly more feminine and sexy.

We don’t want to trudge through a jungle of your pubic hair just so we can find your clit. You are aware that they are not as big as a cock and balls, right? We have to dig to find your cute little cunt cap, then hold it open and go to town. We don’t want to have your hair go into our mouth and teeth when we are trying to lick and suck on your clitoris and labia.

By having a shaved or trimmed pussy, you’re showing a man you actually take care of yourself and aren’t too lazy to do such a simple task. Yes, I know it’s time-intensive, but you know what else is time-intensive? Living up to all these damn standards you demand from us on your listicles.

2. Keep your fucking pussy fresh.

There are few things more exciting for a man than the prospect of getting laid. All of our hard work—taking you out for drinks, flirting, putting up with your flaky bullshit, pretending to care about your hopes and dreams—lead up to the moment where we are feeling you up, kissing you, and throw you on the bed. Then we slip off your jeans and see your glorious body in your underwear. Then, when we’re ready to fuck you, we take your panties off, only to be hit in the face like a bag of rocks by your cunt funk because you decided you didn’t need to shower before the date because you had a long workday.

It has always boggled my mind when a girl can’t tell her pussy stinks. I’ve sat across chicks wearing skirts that I had every intention of fucking. Then they would briefly open their legs in an effort to entice me, but all I could focus on was the fact that I could smell the wretched stench of her meat curtains. I’m pretty aware when my balls stink and make it a rule to have them be fresh whenever I have the slightest chance of getting laid.

You ladies need to adopt a similar philosophy. A foul pussy can be a boner-killer for a lot of men. Yet a fresh and clean pussy is one of the most delicious and wondrous things in the world. It’s an addicting smell and taste that we can’t get enough of. If you keep your lady bits fresh for me, I’ll make sure to have you squirming with my tongue.

3. Put your fucking phone away.

I know you girls’ lifeline is your phones and you have 56 #selfies on your Instagram with slightly different angles with 100+ likes because desperate guys on the Internet like to over-inflate your ego by liking your picture that literally required no effort on your part to take other than to make a #duckface in irony, but put that shit in your purse. We are trying to form a connection with you and get to know you. We want to make eye contact with you and see your smile in its natural state, not the heavily altered best-of-10-pictures state.

You ladies bitch and moan about how modern men aren’t real men anymore. But are you even real women anymore? Are you stuck as a caricature you developed through your online persona that constantly needs to be reaffirmed and validated? Why the fuck do you care if CoolGuy69 liked your picture if all you’re going to say is he is a creep for doing so? Is your real self such a hollow shell of a human being that your only form of effective communication is through filtered pictures, Marilyn Monroe quotes, emojis, and putting 20 different hashtags on each picture?

Or are you more? Are you capable of giving your undivided attention to one person? Are you able to be truly disconnected from the cyber world for an extended period of time and just enjoy the real world for what it is? Are you able to be sincere, talk about meaningful subject matter, and ask intelligent questions? Oh, fuck—I lost your attention already because you’re checking who liked the photo of you modeling that killer lipstick color you discovered.

4. Acknowledge that you’re equally as responsible as men for today’s fucked-up dating culture.

Here is a double standard you ladies refuse to acknowledge: When a man is a flirt who gives you every signal in the book that he is into you but then decides he isn’t, he’s an asshole. But when you talk to a dude in a flirty way, lead him into thinking he is more than he is, and then you decide you’re not into him, that’s just your adorable little personality and you are having some innocent girl fun. It may sound strange to you, but we men have feelings, too. We become smitten, form crushes, and become enthralled with a chick that has caught our eye. We just don’t show it because we’ve learned through trial and error that as soon as you show a woman any form of emotion, you scare her away because she no longer sees you as a challenge.

You want us to stop playing games? Then you need to stop playing games, too. But you won’t because you refuse to acknowledge that you’re even playing a game. You operate in this fantasy world where women are always the victims who are incapable of doing anything wrong. While you’re bitching to your #bff about McDreamerson and how much of a dick he is for not returning your text, you have three or four texts from other guys in your inbox that you have not returned. That makes you as much of a dick as the guy you are hung-up over. Oh, right—you’re a girl and thus are allowed to be a pussy because it’s the man’s job to understand that you’re not into him.

You seek to blame men for treating women like objects, when you treat men like objects yourself. Just like you may be a brunette with a fine ass that we can’t wait to pound, we are a tall, muscular guy you can’t wait to blow. Just like you may be a fat, gorilla-faced chick who falls far below the Jack Off Line, we are that short, pimply-faced, creepy guy who still lives with his mom who won’t stop texting you. We both see the other person as objects, not as people.

Maybe I’m just a bitter misogynistic pig with a small penis so you should dismiss everything I say as wrong because it doesn’t fall in line with your fairy-tale princess fantasies. Or maybe I’m calling you out on your bullshit like a real human being and friend will do to help you understand things from a male’s perspective. Either way, it’s on you whether you incorporate my advice or ignore it like that one chick that I like is ignoring my text message right now.

~Raul Felix

Read more of my work Thought Catalog.

Carrie Nation: The Temperance Leader With A Bad Temper

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CarrieNation

Imagine yourself as a turn-of-the-20th-century working-class American male. After spending all week in appalling working conditions marked by long hours, low pay, and shitty treatment, the only light you have in your otherwise bleak existence is your Friday night at the saloon. You’re boozing and gambling away your meager paycheck with your equally browbeaten buddies trying to forget the utterly unsatisfying and endless turmoil that is your existence, but you’re thankful you made it through another week without having your arm ripped off at the ol’ mill. Suddenly, the door of the saloon bursts opens and in enters a hatchet-wielding, spectacle-wearing, middle-aged woman yelling, “Men, I have come to save you from a drunkard’s fate.” That was the 1900s equivalent of “You motherfuckers need Jesus!”

That menacing woman was Carrie Nation, a named both feared and mocked by drunken lowlifes of yore. Carrie Nation was a part of the temperance movement before being a part of the temperance movement was the fashionable thing for devout Christian women to do.

You sit there not sure what to do. You’ve read of this rampaging woman in the papers, but you never imagined she’d come to the place where you drink your misery away. She raises her hatchet and skillfully smashes several bottles of whiskey with one devastating swoop. Then she takes another swing and another. A few minutes later, every bottle of alcohol in the saloon lays shattered on the floor. Grown men stare stunned. She leaves the saloon and heads to another. She’s only begun.

Carrie Nation really fucking hated alcohol.

Born in 1846, she had a life filled with tragedy. Her mother died in an insane asylum. Her first husband was a drunk and became increasingly unreliable. He drank himself to death shortly after Carrie left him. She married again, only to have it end in divorce.

Realizing that marriage, love, and happiness probably wasn’t her thing, she devoted herself to God and the temperance movement. Carrie’s early strategies involved doing peaceful protests with hymns and japes at the bartender by greeting them with “Good morning, destroyer of men’s souls.” This plan yielded little results in stopping men whose only saving grace in life was alcohol.

Carrie knew she needed to step it up a notch if she wanted to get results. As a God-fearing woman, in 1900 she got on her knees and prayed to the Lord Almighty. She prayed with all her will and devotion. Back then, God wasn’t the flaky asshole he is now about answering people’s prayers, so he promptly gave Carrie a vision:

“Go to Kiowa [a town in Kansas]. I’ll stand by you.”

Since God always likes to keep shit vague, Carrie ran with it and took it as meaning: “Go to Kiowa and fuck some saloons up with rocks.”

And fuck saloons up with rocks she did. She walked into a bar in Kiowa with a bag full of rocks—or “smashers,” as she termed them—and valiantly threw them against the mirrors and bottles of the saloon. She was getting her revenge on the place where the serpent drink crushed the hopes of her early years. She repeated this action at two more bars. By the time she was finished with the third, a crowd had gathered cheering her on. When the sheriff arrived, Carrie displayed how much of a gangster she truly was—she dared him to arrest her. He didn’t.

Emboldened by her God-approved vandalism, she headed off to Wichita and attacked the most popular saloon in town. The Wichita police weren’t the pushovers that they were in Kiowa, and Carrie was arrested for defacing property. “I am defacing nothing. I am destroying,” she said as she was being arrested. Jail didn’t faze Carrie: “You put me in here a cub, but I will come out a roaring lion. I will make all hell howl.”

After getting out of jail, she adopted her trademark hatchet as her instrument of booze destruction. She headed off from one small town you’ve never heard of to another you’ve never heard of. She would be arrested time and again, each time scoffing at the law and paying the fines for her release. She even had the governor of Kansas plead with her to stop her attacks. “You are a woman. And a woman must know a woman’s place.” Carrie strutted out and called for a hatchetation.

Now, what the fuck is a hatchetation?

A hatchetation was when hundreds of women and a few men who really fucking hate alcohol would destroy over 100 saloons throughout Kansas. It was so effective that it forced state senators to actually do their jobs and enforce the laws already on the books regarding prohibition in Kansas.

Even back then, Americans were a fickle bunch and as quickly as Carrie Nation got things going, the movement faded away. Carrie didn’t give a fuck; she went solo on her crusades and kept many bartenders on alert until her death in 1911.

You’re with your buddies, stepping over the destruction that Carrie Nation left behind. You shake your head in bewilderment and look at the sign above the bar:

“All nations welcome, except Carrie.”

~Raul Felix

Read more of my articles at Thought Catalog.

Ode To La Doña: The Linchpin Of The Mexican Family

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FamiliaFelix

The Mexican man takes pride in the fact that he is the man of the house. In his mind, he possesses the huevos, so he naturally runs shit. If he wants to stay up late on a Friday night listening to musica norteña from the $1,500 after-market sound system of his ’95 GMC Yukon while drinking Bud Light, eating carne asada, and bitching about life with his carnales, he’ll do it, damn it!

Then his phone rings. “Es mi vieja,” he says as he looks down at the screen of ay-phone. He quickly picks up and answers. “Si, mi amor?” His friends hear the muffled sound of his wife yelling at him that it’s time to come home. “Mandala al la chingada,” say his carnales who are single. But they are well aware that he is in a powerless position and when his wife says it’s time to come home, he better move his fucking ass or run the risk of having his favorite Chivas soccer jersey cut up again. His wife may be young, but she is stubborn, brave, and resourceful. She has the makings a future “La Doña.”

In the Mexican family, much like the British monarchy, the man is the figurehead in name only. La Doña is the one who is the true shot-caller. La Doña is the alpha female. She could be the grandmother, oldest sister, or the most assertive, fiscally responsible, and reliable female out of the many characters that comprise the family. She has a commanding presence and rules with love, fear, and respect.

There is no love like the love of La Doña. Upon seeing you she’ll give you a hug, kiss, comment on how fat you gotten, and ask if you’re hungry. Then she’ll immediately get in the kitchen and throw together whatever she can from the contents of her fridge. Even with minimal ingredients, La Doña is able to magically assemble a delicious meal that you eat to the last bite.

La Doña will be the first person you call when life has kicked you in the balls. If you’re broke and struggling to pay your bills, La Doña is hardworking and frugal enough that she can lend you money. If life gets to the point where you lost your place to live, she’ll be the first person to let you stay in her spare bedroom until you reestablish yourself. When you’re downtrodden and everyone is looking down on you, La Doña will ferociously defend you and make it clear that your bad luck is only temporary.

She’ll be at your birthdays, graduations, and major life events. La Doña will be your biggest fan and supporter in all your dreams and endeavors, however farfetched they may be. She will speak proudly of you to others and highlight all of your accomplishments whenever the opportunity presents itself.

But La Doña will also fill you with fear. She will be the first person to confront you when you are fucking up. Get a bad grade in school? Be ready for her to yell your ear off about how if you don’t get good grades, you’ll be washing dishes at Denny’s with the other dumb Mexicans. You want to be cool and hang out with the little gangster kids across the street? La Doña isn’t going to let you become a good-for-nothing cholo that gives the rest of us Mexicans a bad name. She’ll go to their house, find you, and berate you in front of everybody with a combination of your name, swear words, your last name, and more swear words. Then she’ll grab you by the ear and drag your ass back home. Did you decide to get drunk and get your ass bounced out of the bar again? Don’t worry, La Doña will pick you up. The price: her beating the crap out of you for being tan estúpido. It doesn’t matter if you’re 27.

La Doña rules mostly with respect. Maybe she isn’t highly educated or well traveled, but her knowledge of how the real world works in invaluable. She has worked long, hard hours for low pay. She has seen life come into this world and has seen it leave. She has had her share of love and heartbreak, excitement and disappointment, happiness and sadness. She has selflessly put her family’s needs ahead of her own. She has made the right connections and has become a key figure in helping the family establish themselves in a new country.

La Doña knows how to get shit done and has connections who speak Spanish. Your ’92 Camry is having transmission trouble, but you don’t trust any of the gringo mechanics because they’re always looking to rip off Mexicans? Don’t worry; La Doña knows a guy who speaks Spanish and is trustworthy. You need a job? La Doña has a friend who owns a little taco shop and will hook you up. You’re traveling back to Mexico to visit? Just let La Doña make a couple of phone calls and you’ll have yourself a place to stay.

La Doña has more balls than most men. While many men willingly abandon their offspring, La Doña has more character in her right pinkie and will never let any child in her bloodline feel unloved. La Doña leads by example, never expecting anyone to do anything she isn’t willing to do herself. She’s the most levelheaded of the men and women in the family, often putting herself in the middle of their petty feuding to help find a solution so the family stays whole.

La Doña seems superhuman in the way she skillfully governs the chaos that is the Mexican family. Her fuel is her love for every member. Their trials are her trials. Their burdens are her burdens. Their success is her success. Their happiness is her happiness. She will have her favorite picture of you hanging up on some wall in her home. Even as you grow older and start building your own life, she will always worry about you because to her, you’re still esé niño who barely knows how to wipe his butt.

~Raul Felix
Read more of my work on Thought Catalog.

Skill Vs. Serendipity: Why Men Are Studs And Women Are Sluts

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(c) cso237(taeb)

Like oh my god, I can’t believe our societal double standard. Why is it that men can fuck around and be studs, while if I fuck too many dudes, I’m a slut?” That’s a question many a young lady has asked herself as she fandangos her iPhone filled with text messages from the two guys she is currently banging at random intervals and a few others who she may bang in the future.

Why is there a double standard? Is it because the evil patriarchy has put into place the systematic oppression of women and uses sex as one of its many tools? Is it because biologically speaking, men subconsciously correlate a woman’s previous promiscuity as an indicator of future behavior and the likelihood she will cheat or worse, trap him into raising a child that isn’t his? Or maybe, just maybe, in order to get laid, a woman doesn’t have to do Jack shit and a man has to tromp through a bunch of bullshit?

Most guys don’t give a shit about girls style, race, where she went to school, or what she does for living when their sole objective is to fornicate with them. Whether she’s an indie-punk chick, a hipster, a quirky nerdy girl, a beauty queen, a preppy, a sexy tomboy, or even one of the few genuinely attractive hardcore feminazis, their pussies are all warm, pink, and moist on the inside.

As Chris Rock said, “It’s easy for ya’ll [to turn down sex], every woman in here since you were 13, every guy you’ve met has been trying to fuck ya.” The truth is that it requires absolutely no skill whatsoever on a chicks part to get a dick to fill her up. Unless she’s an absolute behemoth of a woman with a fucked up face, most of you ladies, if you truly wanted to, can look through your current contacts and find a dozen guys willing to fuck you tonight. Or you can just go to the bar, wear a cute little outfit, and make seductive little faces that convey how much you want a cock up in your guts.

Casual and random sex for you girls is a pure act of serendipity. Other than looking cute and being pleasant, it requires no investment on your part at all. You have a girls’ night out where you “just wanna dance” and enjoy yourself in your circle as you get hit on by guys you consider creepy because they don’t have the style you’re into. Then finally, one who has the look and attitude you’re into finally hits on you. All you have to do is enjoy the attention he gives you; let him do the talking, giggle, agree with him. Play with your hair; drink a few to loosen you up, and next thing you know, you have a mouth full of cum as you finish blowing him in the front seat of his Camaro.

Casual and random sex for a man is an act of skill, perseverance, and a little bit of luck. There are certain standards we as men must meet and conditions we must operate under in order to get into your panties. First, we have to have confidence to approach you and face the stacked odds that you’ll ignore us, nicely say no, or tell us to fuck off because we’re not your type. Some chicks like pretty, blue eyed white guys, others like tatted up bad boys, while others hate their fathers enough to date a man of a different race. If we’re not the right type for you, we’re shit out of luck.

Secondly, you ladies have to be in the right mood to be even hit on. If the chicks period is extra heavy, if she’s undergoing some stressful time where she just wants the whole world to leave her alone, or she feels like being a cunt because she’s too cool to talk to anyone; then most men, no matter how charming or good looking, have no chance.

Let’s say that a man is able to jump those first two hurdles, he has the look a girl is attracted to or at least interested in and she is not in some rabid bitch mood. He still has to say things to keep a girls little feminine minds interested. This is where he has to use his experiences from failures and successes of yore. He has to assess the situation, pick a subject matter to talk about that is sure to make her feel intellectually stimulated, emotionally connected, and make her laugh. Depending on how good-looking of a dude he is, the degree of how funny he has to be varies.

Then there is the unforgiving Best Friend Forever (BFF) Barrier. Ladies, many of you have perfected this to an art form by the age of 21. You clumsily flop from one bar to another in your high heels. Upon reaching a new destination, through slut-mosis, you form a sphere shaped BFF Barrier effectively blocking out the rest of the world. Usually, the hottest chick will be in the middle, underneath the watchful of eyes of her less attractive friends. If a man should be so lucky to be able to attract the attention of the girl he’s after, he still must win approval from iron fisted BFF Barrier. He must outwit, charm, befriend, and persuade them to rally for his cause. If he is unable to do so, then they will veto him by passive aggression: they will start looking the other way, check their phones, and physically boxing him out with their flailing, I mean, dancing.

Upon completing that objective, it’s still not all smooth sailing from there. If a man is unable to seal the deal on the first night, there is less than 25% chance that’ll he’ll ever see or hear from this chick again to get another try since western women these days are notoriously fickle. They’ll lie about not seeing a text (bitch please, you’re on your phone 24/7, we’re not stupid, we don’t believe your poorly thought out lies), will wait forever to respond, will make plans but never confirm, or flake on dates without giving it a second thought because they just didn’t feel like it or found a better option.

Its rough, but these are the facts of the dating world that we as men operate in. We understand the supply and demand system. We have a demand for your little pink lady parts and chicks, as the supplier, have autonomy over the distribution of the goods. We want those goods, and are thus are willing to trudge through market driven price of chick-bullshit that comes with it. A man has to be able to brush off rejection with a simple, “Oh well, fuck it, her loss,” and move on, never thinking of her again. While most chicks, if they ever even have the balls to hit on guy and get rejected, will make it an emotionally significant event in their lives that will inspire many a shitty poem and emotioncon laden text messages to their BFF’s.

Adjusting for those extremely rare times when he got retardedly lucky, he had to earn every notch he gets. He had to have the confidence to approach, the right look, catch her at the right time, say the right things, make her laugh and smile, charm her and her friends. If he didn’t pee in her butt the night they met, he had to take her for drinks, charm her some more, impress her with his life story and interests, not say anything too stupid, make the right moves, in order to just lay the pipe. For ever pipe he laid, he has had to deal with half a dozen or more other chicks shitty attitudes, lies, flakiness, bullshit, fickleness, shit tests, stupid friends, irrational behaviors, and a host of other unique problems. This is why a man who is able to secure sex from various women is considered a stud. All a woman has to do is: look relatively decent, show up to a place where men gather, not be a bitch, and open her legs. She doesn’t have to approach, she doesn’t have to particular look, she doesn’t have to catch him at the right time, say the right things, or even win his friends over. She just needs to show up, be serendipitous, and it’s cocks galore. This is why a chick who has sex easily with various men is a considered a slut. In a capitalistic society, we value skill over mediocrity. The skills of being a stud are so hard to acquire that only a small percentage of men are able to accomplish it, in turn, society holds it in prestige. While the low level skill of being a slut can easily be mastered by any chick with a shitty enough upbringing.

So, ladies, as you text the couple of guys you’re banging, just think about how much bullshit you put him through to get into those panties or better yet, think of all the men you’ve rejected and how many rejections they have to go through just to eventually get a piece of ass. Surely, you didn’t have to put as much effort to get the current cocks you’re sucking.

~Raul Felix

Appeared On Thought Catalog: Skill Vs. Serendipity: Why Men Are Studs And Women Are Sluts.

Politically Incorrect and Loving It

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“I’d fuck the living shit out of her,” is what comes out of my mouth when I see a hot chick walking down the street wearing some rather provocative clothing that causes my dick to bulge. I forget that phrase isn’t quite socially acceptable in the setting of a polite society. A feminist will probably say I’m encouraging rape culture just by uttering those words. Because of those words, I have shown that women are still being discriminated against and are being judged by misogynistic males, such as myself. That now I am directly responsible for any rapes that may occur because of it. Maybe I should say something along of the lines of “I find that female highly attractive, while I find her fashion of dress extremely alluring, it doesn’t give me the right to think I am entitled to have sex with her. I would, if given the opportunity, engage in consensual sexual intercourse that she, at any moment, has the right to stop.” Then I will be balls deep in politically correct pussy.

Maybe my mind has been warped by spending the formative years of my youth in the Army. Not just the Army, but in a combat arms unit full of solely males with too much testosterone, vanity, angst, and bloodlust. A place where “Fuck” and its many different variations is used more often than “the” and “a”. A place where being miserable, hating your life, being over worked and under paid is standard operating procedure. A place where going to war again and again is a fact of life. A place where being politically correct will get you eaten alive faster than a prepubescent girl at a pedophile convention. If you want that politically correct bull shit, go down the street to that support battalion full of females waiting to slam you with a sexual harassment charge.

I forget that most people don’t understand the uniquely vulgar and fucked sense of humor you acquire from just being a man with only men to talk to. A group of men who you tell the intricate details of the women you fuck, drunken and drug infused hijinks, the fights you were in, missions you were in, and the fucked up shit in your life. Most people spend their employment hours in politically correct bubbles where the most exciting conversation at the water cooler is that Cindi may have gone on a date with Brandon and how that’s against company fraternization policy.

I have devolved into an eloquent baboon. Nothing I say or think, as hard as I try, can be completely politically correct. I have lost that sense and probably need to take a women studies and cultural sensitivity class. While I do say those rapist words, I really don’t mean them. I mean I would just like to her fuck her brains out while pulling her hair, biting her neck, and spanking her ass raw, consensually of course. A woman with a college degree who is attractive, intelligent, and fast tracking through the corporate ladder can never simply be that. More likely she’s, “That smart ass bitch with a degree, total dick sucking lips, and amazing ass. She’s a fucking director at some company or some shit.” I can never ride my motorcycle through the Little Saigon area of Orange County without being terrified that some Vietnamese with shitty driving skills isn’t going to run me over. I can never look at a retard or a dead chick story on the news without thinking of the Ranger S&M Man song:

Who can take a retard,
7 stories high,
give him hits of acid,
then tell him he can fly

The S&M man, the S&M man,
the S&M man cause he mixes it with love
and makes the hurt feel good, makes the hurt feel good

Who can take a dead chick,
break into her tomb,
stab her in the gut,
then fuck the bloody womb

The S&M man, the S&M man,
the S&M man cause he mixes it with love
and makes the hurt feel good, makes the hurt feel good

Catchy ain’t it? The most horrid thing is that I’m laughing writing about that. Does that mean that I am waste of human flesh that should’ve ended up as a pearl neckless on my mother’s neck instead of being conceived and raised to be the insensitive man-child I am today? Probably. How dare I have a sense of humor that isn’t in line with a pre-approved list of acceptable subjects to laugh at? I made a sexist a joke. Oh fuck, I just punched the woman’s right movement in its clit and sent it back five years. A racist joke. Holy fuck, Martin Luther King Jr. is resurrecting from the grave and about to give me a stern talking to about judging a person by the content of their character and not the color of their skin. Oh right, I have to be sensitive, because some peoples ego’s are so fragile that whatever little hint of criticism will send them spiraling into oblivion. I guess my first amendment rights don’t apply if they hurt your feelings.

Negro Community

I may be a lost cause for political correctness. I should probably do something about it before the baboon mind completely takes hold irrevocably. I got an idea. I’ll apply to a liberal arts college, I’ll make sure to put in my latino status on the FAFSA and give a good sob story on my essay about how I powered through adversity despite my poor Mexican roots. Once accepted, I’ll major in political science because instead of spending tens of thousands dollars on a real degree, I’ll just waste it on a major that teaches you in four years what you could learn by watching the Discovery and History Channel in a week. Then I will join various clubs and groups that empathize political protests and being politically correct. My peers will be a bunch of girls with hair on their armpits and boys who shave their armpits. I will then talk about how passionate I am about women’s rights or the ozone layer, depending which nets me the most liberated, feminist pussy that particular week. I will also spend a semester studying abroad to some place like Italy. I’ll bring it up in every conversation for the next two years and talk about how it changed me to my very core, when in reality, I just got drunk with my fellow study abroad students and banged two Italian chicks. Then, I will graduate, move to Portland, and say I’m an artist but never work on my craft. I’ll have pseudo-intellectual conversations with my fellow barista’s and customers. I will act like I’m too good for my little $9 an hour gig and hold it in contempt because I have a college education.

Cultured as fuck, mother fucker!

Cultured as fuck, mother fucker!

Or maybe, I can actually have a sense of humor and not give a fuck if I offend you. Maybe I’ll just live life on my own terms and decide what is proper to say and do and what isn’t on my own accord. Maybe, instead of hanging with someone because they are a certain race and thus will show I am not racist by having them as friend, I’ll hang with someone of a different race because I actually like them. Maybe, instead of worrying about who I offend and may not like me and delete me from their Facebook, I be myself and attract the kind of people who get me and like me for who I am. Maybe, when I travel, I will accept it for what it is: Seeing a bunch of pretty things during the day and getting so drunk you forget about it at night. Maybe, when I go to a coffee shop to write, I won’t make pseudo-intellectual conversation with anyone, and instead, shut the fuck up and actually work on my writing about my unreasonable lust of women. Speaking of which, there is a pretty cute chick sitting on the other side of the coffee shop. Man, I would fuck the living shit out of her.

~Raul Felix

“You offended me! I demand to see your editor!” No, fuck you and read: Every Race is Worthless