Jumping Out of Airplanes: How It’s Really Like

My second article on Thought Catalog has gone live. People always ask me how it’s like jumping out of airplanes, and I could never quite put it. So, I took a lot of thought and I decided to tell it in the most matter fact way possible. I’m pretty proud of this one.

“There was blood upon the risers; there were brains upon the chute,
Intestines were a-dangling from his paratrooper’s suit,
He was a mess; they picked him up, and poured him from his boots,
He ain’t gonna jump no more.

Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
He ain’t gonna jump no more!”
-Blood Upon the Risers: World War 2 American Paratrooper Song

One of the best and worst parts of being an Airborne Ranger is the airborne part. Civilian types tend to have a misconception of what jumping out of airplanes is like in the Army. When they picture it, they think of all those skydiving videos where you pleasantly enjoy the view as you have the thrill of a lifetime, screaming at the top of your lungs, and with adrenaline pumping through your system. Then you land softly and celebrate because you faced one of your fears. During the whole thing you took pictures; you then post them on Facebook, and people comment about how truly wild and crazy you are. The whole thing probably took about three or four hours.

Like everything else in the Army, it’s a longer, more painful process. I’m not particularly scared of heights, but jumping out of an airplane was one of the training events I dreaded the most during my time in uniform. The process goes as follows:

You see on the training calendar that there is a jump coming up. You wonder if there is a way you can sham your way out of it, but sadly for you, you’re unable to weasel out. Fuck it. You joined the Army to jump out of airplanes and kill people, right?

To minimize the odds of you killing or maiming yourself and your buddies, the day before, you go through sustainment training. Sustainment training is where you get repounded into your head all the proper steps and procedures for conducting airborne operations that you learned in Airborne School. This involves going through a dry run of all the things you’re supposed to do as a group when you jump into the abyss. You play out perfectly the appropriate actions when you hook-up: Hand-off the static line, jump with your legs together in a tight body position, counting to four-thousand, and feeling the opening shock of the parachute. Then you make sure to check your canopy has no holes in it by looking up; if you’re unable to put your head up it’s because your risers are twisted, you bicycle kick to untwist yourself. You keep a sharp lookout during decent, make sure to avoid other jumpers, trees, telephone wires, and other potential hazards. You then play out what you will do if you do run into any of those hazards. You then prepare to land, putting a slight bend in your knee, keeping your eyes to the horizon. You then land by hitting the balls of your feet followed by your calves, thighs, buttocks, and pull up muscle. They actually call it the pull up muscle. That’s the end of sustainment training and now you are ready for your jump.

The next day, you go to the airfield to rig up your chute, harness, weapon, and put on your 45-plus-pound rucksack. God help you if you’re a mortarman or a machine gun gunner; you have a shit-ton more weight to carry. You then get inspected by a Jump Master to make sure you didn’t rig yourself all sorts of fucked up.

This is where the fun begins. The bird is probably going to be delayed by an hour or two. Meanwhile the harness is crushing your balls, and you’re unable to move effectively because you have your heavy ass rucksack dangling from your waist. You’re sitting down, using your helmet as a support for your lower back. While you’re waiting for an unknowable amount of time, you fall asleep. Suddenly, you’re awaken, still groggy; you are told to get up. You struggle to get yourself up and fumble around like a football, until one of your buddies takes pity on you and offers you a helpful hand. As you get to your feet, you realize you have to take a piss. Too late, dick face, your 50-plus buddies are already lining up to get on the bird. You don’t really walk to the bird but instead press forward in waddle-like, hunched over fashion in order to support the weight you’re carrying.

You approach the C-17, a humongous fortress of an airplane whose size leaves you in awe. Instantly the distinct smell of jet fuel and heat of the engines hit you. You follow the men in front up the ramp of the C-17 and take a seat. The ramp goes up, the plane taxis on the run way and takes off. As the plane settles into flight, the once roaring sounds of the engines turns into a hum.

Even if it’s not your first jump, the feeling of uneasiness and fear never completely go away. This shit is fucking dangerous even with all the precautions the military takes. On my first jump in battalion, we had one of our men get his parachute tangled with two other jumpers and got killed in the horrible training accident. The other two Rangers suffered serious injuries. Broken ankles, legs, backs, and concussions occur enough to be a legitimate concern each time one rigs up their chute.

At times the flight only takes twenty minutes, at others several hours. The two side doors of the C-17 open, and your ears are consumed by the fury of the wind. It’s hard to hear anything else. You see the Jump Master give you the signal to “Hook Up,” and in unison everyone echoes the command. “Check equipment!” screams the Jump Master. You paranoialy check all your straps and hooks, making sure none of them somehow came undone. Then the soldier in the very back slaps the ass of the one in front of him while saying “Okay.” This creates an ass slapping domino effect that continues until it reaches the very first jumper who then says, “Okay Jump Master!”

You stand there with your ruck hanging between your legs waiting to jump. Its heavy, uncomfortable, and you’re hating your life. You probably should have just gone to college. Your back is cramping up; you lean to the side of the plane to help support yourself and relieve some of the stress. The plane is encountering some turbulence, and you know this jump is going to fucking suck. After being tortured by this, you’re not even scared of jumping anymore. You just want to get the fuck off the bird so you can take the goddamn ruck off from in between your legs.

“One minute,” echoes through the plane. You’re looking in front of you, eyes on the red light which will soon turn green. Finally, you’re getting off this fucking bird. “30 seconds,” the birds coming upon the drop zone, and you’re completely focused on what you’re going to do next. The Jump Master has placed the first jumper in front of the door. The light turns green and “Go!” orders the Jump Master as he slaps the first jumper’s ass signaling him to jump. With one-second spacing between them, each man proceeds after the other. Your mind goes blank as you walk towards the door, all the training kicks in and everything you’re suppose to do has become muscle memory at this point. You hand off your static line, make a right face, and jump. You count to four-thousand, keeping your body tight as you get sucked out. Your chute opens and the once deafening sound of jet engines and wind is replaced by the tranquility of the being airborne as you slowly descend to the Earth. You begin to look in all directions and see your buddies all around you. You’re hoping you don’t run into one of them. You see one is getting too close, and you pull the risers in an attempt to slip away, but they really don’t do much. He spreads-eagle and he bounces off your chute, going on his merry way.

Now you must prepare to land. You drop your ruck, grab your risers, hold them firmly, keep your eyes on the horizon, and bend your knees slightly. You hope you don’t land on thorn bushes or if you’re doing an air field seizure, on the tarmac. You hit the ground hard. It knocks the wind out of you. You lay there for a moment or two, trying to figure out if you’re hurt or have broken anything. Luckily everything seems to be fine, and you begin to perform your final point of performance: taking that piss you’ve been holding in since you got on the bird.

~Raul Felix

The Pick-Up Follies: The Snow Fatty

I was in my seat on an airplane in between two very attractive women. Yet, I was unable to talk them. My breath stank and I reeked of booze, smoke, desperation, fat girl spit, and body odor. Normally, I would have started a little coy conversation in effort to see if there was a connection, but not this time. This time, I sat there in silence brooding on the foul odor that had been cast upon my body. God was just, I was being punished for the sins I had committed the previous night.

We had spent two weeks in late October 2008 on a training trip in Fort Bragg. After doing our military training for the day, we spent nearly every night of those two weeks getting hammered beyond reason or recourse. It was our last night in North Carolina and we decided to have one final hurrah before heading back to Washington. “Jonathan” and I tried to rally up a bunch of the guys to go out, but most rejected the idea knowing that we had an early morning flight to catch. We were able to get a humble group, “Blitzy”, “Tiburón”, “Jonathan”, and I to go out.

We rode through the mean streets of Fayetteville to a bar called Doghouse Bar & Grill. The place was refreshingly different from the typical bars you see outside military bases. The amount of high and tights with off-duty soldiers wearing their dog tags outside their t-shirts as a fashion accessory was kept to a minimum. Typical of southern bars, there was a cloud of cigarette smoke that engulfed the whole place. There was a live band playing country music, cheap beers, and a decent female to male ratio.

Since I always keep my head on a swivel looking for attractive women to hit on and promptly get rejected by, I noticed there was only one really hot chick in the whole entire place. Our drinks came and we made a toast to the good times and to 2/75. I kept my eye on the hot chick and noticed that she was eye fucking the singer the whole time. After he completed one of the songs, she went up to kiss him passionately. With that kiss, went my one percent chance at success with the only hot chick. It looked like hitting on the bountiful subpar chicks of the bar were the conditions I was going to operate under.

I was drinking my alcohol at a respectable rate in order to boost my courage levels so I could actually approach women. While these days I am able to hit on a chick like nothing, back then, I still needed a good helping of alcohol to get myself to talk to one at a bar. The alcohol began to set in, ever so gently, taking over my psyche. Liquid courage had been spliced with my blood. I targeted a table made up of fuckable, but unimpressive looking women. I went in and begun speaking to one about witty and charming subject matter that surely sparked her interest. After a couple of minutes, the rest of my buddies decided to join the table. One guy in particular, Blitzy, began to hit it off with one of a generic looking chicks. Eventually, the girls tired of me and I went back to sitting at the bar alone. Blitzy was forming a true spiritual connection with the generic chick.

All the guys except for Blitzy rejoined me at the bar and we continued toasting and drinking. A couple more drinks in, I locked eyes with a woman who was in the late stages of being a cougar and in the early stages of being a sabertooth. She smiles at me, I sat there frozen not sure what to do.

Raul: “That chick is looking at me.”

Jonathan: “Go for it.”

Raul: “But she’s really old.”

Jonathan: “So? Women like that will show you some crazy ass shit that you can only dream of.”

Raul: “Really?”

Jonathan: “Yeah man.”

I walked up to her and begun flirting with her all awkwardly because I wasn’t sure how the fuck you’re supposed to hit on an older woman. She was dirty blonde, with rough skin conditioned by many a decade spent in smokey bar, and had a cigarette in her mouth. I don’t recall what we talked about or what poor excuse of seductive language I used to get her to the point of holding my hand. She pulled me close and said:

Older Woman: “You’re really cute, you should come home with me.” She squeezes my hand and places it on her thigh.

Raul: “Uh… I can’t… I have to stay here with my buddies. They’re my ride.”

Older Woman: “I’ll make sure you won’t forget it.”

Raul: “I can’t, I’m sorry.” I gave her a hug and walked back.

I’ll make no excuses about it. I pussed out because I was really intimidated by this older woman even though she wasn’t that attractive.

I rejoined my buddies and was mocked for having fucked it up with the almost-sabertooth. While my little frolic with older temptation occurred, it seemed that Blitzy had truly formed a one a kind connection with the generic chick. He went about consummating their one in a million love by fucking her doggy-style in the back seat of the van while she stuck her head out the window vomiting.

We continued to drink and were inebriated to the point where we sung along with the band. All morals and standards were being slain by the alcohol demon. Then she appeared: a paled skinned woman, with dark hair, and humongous breasts. She was like Snow White, if Snow White was about 100 pounds heavier. I didn’t care, I walked up to her.

Raul: “Let me guess, you’re drinking a Jack and Coke?”

Snow Fatty: “No, it’s a Rum and Coke, but good guess.”

Raul: “I like rum and coke, let me have a taste,” I take a sip out her drink, “Not bad.”

I introduced her to my buddies and we’re introduced to her shady looking friend “Daringer.” I got close to her and heavily flirted, touching her here and there. Fully aware that I was way above her league, I knew it was all a matter of playing the waiting game before my dick will be slaying her orifices. Eventually, the bar begins to close and Blitzy wants to go back to the motel. I asked the Snow Fatty if she could give us a ride to the airport the next morning and she agreed to do so. Snow Fatty, Tiburón, Jonathan, and I all pile into Daringer’s shitty little sedan.

We arrived at the mobile home park she calls home. She and I immediately head to the bedroom. I do my standard operating procedure of shoving her on the bed, positioning myself on top of her, and kissing her. All the while, firmly squeezing her huge breasts. I begun to undress her and that’s when the magnitude of the situation hit me. Her clothes, albeit not well, hid how fat she truly was. I had estimated a 100 pounds overweight Snow White, not a grotesque 150 pounds overweight Snow White. I made the executive decision not to fuck her, instead opting to get my dick sucked until I nutted.

I straddled on top of her, had her support her head on the pillow, and began thrusting full force into her throat. She stops me at some point and wants to fuck. I tell her that I don’t have a condom and luckily, she doesn’t have any laying around either. I continued until I busted in her hair.

I came out the bedroom and Tiburón was passed out on the couch. Jonathan and Daringer were nowhere to be found. It was nearly 4 a.m. and our flight was to leave at 7 a.m. I called Jonathan up and he told me that he went to get some cocaine with Daringer. Since they were my only ride, I began to panic a bit, but then decided that most practical solution was to sleep until they return.

At 6:15 a.m. I was awoken by the pounding of the door and my buddies voices. I scrambled to my feet and scoured the floor for my shoes. “Felix, we have to go man! Lieutenant Snuffy keeps on calling Sergeant Tiburón and he’s fucking pissed,” yells Jonathan. Fuck! I finished getting dressed and we all piled into the car. We were about 20 minutes away from the airport as Daringer drove us as quickly as his little jalopy could take us. Every five minutes en route, Lieutenant Snuffy called Tiburón to get a status report on where the fuck we were at.

At 6:35 a.m. we arrived at the airport. We stumbled out of the car and right before we were going to run off the Snow Fatty asked me, “You’re going to come back one day right? You got my number.” I smile at her and said, “Of course,” and gave her a reassuring hug and run off to the check-in. One of our buddies was on stand by with our bags and we checked in. We got through security rather quickly and ran to the gate where we met up with Lieutenant Snuffy and the rest of the men. “I don’t want to hear any of you fucking idiots speak. I’m going to take care of this shit when we get back! Got it?” He yelled.

“Roger, Sir!” we all responded. We tried our best not smile and giggle at the events that unfolded the previous night. We headed into the boarding gate and Jonathan took out his phone and showed me a picture he took of Snow Fatty. “Ugh… that’s pretty gross,” I said with disappointment. We boarded the plane and I sat in between two lovely women. That’s when I noticed how horrible I must smell.

~Raul Felix

“Tell me more about your follies of picking up women.” Here mother fucker: The Pick-Up Follies: Sleazy E’s Revenge

Guy Talk: Hot Tranny

Raul: “Dude, that fucking Tranny was hotter than most chicks. I am genuinely jealous that you picked her up.”

Calvin: “I know, right? It was really sexually confusing.”

Raul: ”Well, it’s not gay because you weren’t attracted to her masculine features. You were attracted to the parts of her that looked like a hot chick.”

Calvin: “Still, she told me she had a dick.”

Raul: “Ewww… fuck that.”

Calvin: “I figure the only way I could do it is if she and I were both fucking the same chick. The chick could be sucking my dick and she could be fucking her from behind. That way I only see the her face and boobs and I can kiss her and play with her boobs.”

Raul: “So you can go to second base with her? Anything after second base would be gay?”

Calvin: “Exactly.”

Raul: “Fuck yeah. She had some really fucking nice boobs. I wish I could have seen them like you got to.”

Calvin: “They were really nice.”

Raul: “I don’t know man. I wouldn’t be able get to over the fact that she had a dick.”

Calvin: “That part is sort of gross.”

Raul: “Maybe if she was post-op it would be easier.”

Calvin: “Surgeries are pretty good these days.”

Raul: “Do they actually make it look like a legit vagina?”

Calvin: “Yeah man. They use your scrotum skin to replicate the labia.”

Raul: “What about lubrication? There is no way they can replicate that.”

Calvin: “I don’t know. Just use lube I guess.”

Raul: “Do they still feel pleasure if you fuck them in the pussy? One of the best parts of sex for me is making my woman feel good and if she doesn’t feel anything, what the hell is the point?”

Calvin: “I think they use the skin from your dick head to make a makeshift clit. That’s all a clit really is, an underdeveloped dick.”

Raul: “You think technology will get so good one day that they’ll be able to perfectly create everything about the vagina, even the whole lubrication and pleasure aspect of it?”

Calvin: ”I’m sure it will.”

Raul: “If I did fuck one, I’d prefer to stay blissfully ignorant.”

Calvin: “You can always tell by the hands. You can change everything but the hands.”

Raul: “I’ll fucking keep a look out for that. I don’t want to fuck a dude.”

~Raul Felix

“That’s fucking disgusting. You’re going to hell!” Fuck you and read: Guy Talk: Animal Love

Why Being a 90’s Kid Was Badass

At the risk of offending the several cougar fans(you know who you are) I have who no doubt want to have sex with me if the circumstances allowed it, I have the following statement to say: Being a 90’s kid was the best and greatest time to be an adolescent so far. Sorry cougars who had their childhoods in the 70’s and 80’s. While you Gen Xers and Baby Boomers were busy raping our futures with short-sighted policies on banking and government regulations that would leave us riddled with a huge national debt, unemployment, and underemployment, we were watching bad ass TV shows, playing sweet ass video games, and messing around with some tits ass toys.

We Had the Most Bad Ass TV Shows EVER!

I’m talking about Power Fucking Rangers, Tiny Fucking Toons Adventures, Rocko’s Fucking Modern Life, The Fucking Simpsons, Ahhh… Real Fucking Monsters, Adventures of Fucking Pete and Pete, The Fucking Critic, Global Fucking Guts, The Fucking Wonder Years, and my favorite of all, Fucking Doug. If while reading that list your eyes just sparkled a tiny bit and smile ran upon your twenty-something face, congratulations, you were blessed with being a 90’s kid in fucking America.

This was the time when basic cable was at its peak. Nickelodeon had its original Nick Toons and Cartoon Network was just beginning to evolve from just airing old Hanna-Barbara Cartoon into developing their own in house shows. We had great after school shows from FOX Kids and Kids WB. We were young and full of hope. Why wouldn’t we be when he had hero’s like the Power Rangers?

FUCK YES!

FUCK YES!

Power Rangers wore sweet ass helmets with tights of different colors (red was my favorite) and beat the crap out of monsters sent to attack earth by Rita Repulsa. Then Rita Repulsa would throw her staff at the Earth and make the monsters grow as big as skyscrapers. Holy fuck, shit just got real, but not to worry, because the most kick ass part was to come. The Power Rangers would then summon their colossal robotic “zords” and each would be some type of dinosaur. The T-Rex was my favorite! Then, oh my fucking god, they would combine and form The MegaZord that kicked so much ass. In the ensuing epic battle, they would destroy the city and monster, thus winning the day. Then the episode would neatly conclude and everyone would learn to Just Say No to Drugs. Also, Kimberly, the Pink Ranger, was the perfect girl and was the source of many a prepubescent boner.

My dream girl at age 8.

My dream girl at age 8.

With that solid set of role models, we were set up for success. While adults were busy watching boring ass shows like Melrose Place and Party of Five, we were honing our funny bone with some great comedic works. A few especially affluent 90’s kids will remember The Critic. A short-lived animated series that was too good for its time. Starring the paunchy Jay Sherman as a film Critic that has low self-confidence, bad luck with women, and pretty much used as a punching bag by those he loves. The show had edge and a special wit it used to parody movies, celebrities, and current events that was only matched by The Simpsons.

Combine the many shows of that caliber and access to it in our youths, and you have 90’s kids, brought up to have a pretty wicked sense of humor. We are the generation that paved the way for all the shows that currently dominate.

We Had a Sweet Ass Video Gaming Experience

In general, Baby Boomers were too old at the time to really get into video games and misjudged video games as just another fad. While a lot of Gen Xers got into video games as well, they merely adopted them. 90’s kids were born into them, forged by them. We never knew of a world without them. Before we knew how to say our alphabets, we had a Nintendo controller in our hands. Hoping to beat Super Mario Brothers without having to start over a million times or trying to shoot all the ducks in Duck Hunt.

SuperMarioNES

FUCK YES!

Sometime during the first decade of our existence(’91), the gods blessed us with Super Nintendo and Sega Genesis, effectively ensuring our eternal dedication. They enriched our lives with Super Mario World, Street Fighter 2, F-Zero, Super Ghouls and Ghosts, Sonic The Hedgehog, and Altered Beast. Games whose names when uttered fills the body with a form of romanticism and nostalgia resembling Al Bundy thinking about the time he scored four touch downs in a single game.

It was a great time, the 16 Bit War was raging, the video game industry hadn’t run out of idea’s yet, and there were no load times. You would go over to a friends house after school and play some Street Fighter 2. Totally ignoring whatever lame ass crap adults did. Look at them, they’re just sitting around drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and NOT playing video games, what a bunch of joyless weirdoes.

Video games became a part of our generation. Nearly every 90’s kid has at least played Super Mario Brothers and most of them had video game system in their houses growing up. A lot of them still have the modern systems in their home right now. Mario, Sonic, and Pokemon have grown up to be idols to us. These characters from a more carefree and innocent time still remain with us today after we have ventured out into the cold, unforgiving world full of disappointment, gloom, and doom.

Speaking of doom, we played the shit out of Doom on PC on Microsoft DOS. Blowing the shit out of zombie marines and imps. Even though they had the same death animation, it seemed so realistic to our naive eyes that we actually felt we were going through a war with demons from hell. While older generations scoffed, and some groups tried to censor our games for being too violent, we knew better and played them any ways. Fuck the system.

Shit just got fucking real.

Shit just got fucking real.

Ours was the first true gamer generation, sure, others had guys who played Pong, Space Invaders, and Pac Man, but ours was the first one to play video games in mass and pushed the industry forward. What did kids before us do? Pretty lame crap like hula hoop and jacks. What the fuck is that shit?

We Had Tits Ass Toys

While we loved watching TV shows about good guys fucking shit up and playing good guys fucking shit up in video games, we also wanted to act out the role of good guys fucking shit up. There were a few toys from the 90’s that totally epitomized the whole fucking shit up concept.

King of the Nerf Battle

King of the Nerf Battle

The Nerf Ultimator was one of them. It was big, powerful, slow, and inaccurate. It was essentially a Nerf RPG. With this big boy you could shoot at your friends from a long distance and have some small hope of hitting them. The thundering noise it gave off while the trigger was pulled struck terror into the hearts of your enemies. The key to this weapon was shooting at close distance so it could totally rock your poor opponents world. You had to be careful if you missed because the reload time was insane and thus leaving you extremely vulnerable. If you could master this weapon, you would own the battlefield.

Though my family was poor, they put their money together one Christmas and got me the most tits toy of the year, The Megazord. I’ve explained it earlier what it was, but you have no idea how cool it felt to have a real life Megazord in my hands. My imagination will go wild as I would imagine sweet scenarios where I stomped the guts out of my other actions figures who were playing the role of enemy monsters. After thoroughly vanquishing my foes, I would imagine jumping out of The Megazord in my Red Ranger suit and making out with Kimberly.

FUCK YES!

FUCK YES!

I don’t know how any previous generations childhood could have been better than that of a 90’s kids. Seriously, what the hell did you guys do when you were bored at home on a Saturday night? I think the kids today have it pretty damn awesome. I see my two year old niece using the iPhone and iPad with a higher degree of competence than half of adults. She’ll never endure commercial breaks, 56k modems, or AOL banning her from chat room because she cursed too much. She’ll never feel the pain of having to beat a video game with no save points or having to blow into the cartridge in order for the game to work. She’ll never be disconnected from the internet when her mom picks up the phone or have to deal with being forced to watch novelas during the time she should be watching The Simpsons because there is only one TV in the house. I just look at her in amazement and jealousy of how awesome her childhood is going to be because of all these neat toys and video games she has access to. Spoiled brat.

~Raul Felix

Life has been rough to me since the 90’s… got any advice?: Three Rock Solid Way To Become a More Marketable Bum

Politically Incorrect and Loving It

“I’d rape 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 rape 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