Category Archives: Women

Where Are My Whores?

Posted on by Standard 11

I feel like my generation has been gypped. I’m not speaking about the typical Generation-Y woes with the failing economy and our youthful optimism and ambitions being crushed by the real world. This feeling of unfairness is only felt by a select group of Americans; the men who served and fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. There is much talk in the news about how both the Bush and Obama administration mishandled those wars, but I’m not here to get into those politics. While these modern wars gave us luxuries unheard of in past generations, there is one thing that past generations of veterans had access to that we were completely fucked out of: liberated groupies and prostitutes.

After the long, intense, brutal fighting of the D Day invasion against the Nazis and slowly reclaiming Europe, the Allied forces were met and seen as liberators of France. With panties drenched in lust for their liberators, French women would fuck soldiers left and right to show their gratitude. Joe was a hero and his reward, if he chose to act upon it, was that wonderful European pussy. In war, no man knows which day will be his last, so it would be logical for him to act upon it. These women knew what their valiant saviors desired and wanted, and provided it with the utmost eagerness.

Such a simpler time.

Such a simpler time.

What happened in Iraq and Afghanistan? Whether we liberated them from the Taliban or Saddam, they may have been grateful, but the women of these nations were not throwing themselves at American troops. They weren’t happily repaying us for their new found freedom from tyranny by eagerly showing us their beautiful Middle Eastern bodies. We didn’t have free rein to fuck Haji bitches and get them addicted to our American dick. No Haji foxy lady ever gave us the “I want to fuck you eyes”. Most of them were quite the opposite, covered up head to toe in veils. Denying the horny and sex deprived American fighting male the eye candy he sorely needs in an effort to keep his sanity. A pure selfish act on their part.

Not sure if she wants to fuck me, or she is about to detonate her suicide vest.

Not sure if she wants to fuck me, or she is about to detonate her suicide vest.

Well, if we couldn’t win the hearts, minds, and pussies of the local women, we should have been able to use the free market and purchase it at a mutually agreed upon price dictated by the laws of supply and demand, correct? That’s what our fighting men were able to do in the Korean and Vietnam War. After killing hoards of gooks, our brave and battle hardened men were able to go back to base and take a few days of R&R. Around the bases, there would be bars and massage parlors where a GI in need of company could easily acquire it. There would be an overabundance of young, feminine, and attractive asian women with adorable accents to chose from and eager to love him long time. He’d then ravage her delicate little body to his heart’s content and consequently, she would then get paid a handsome price, it was truly a win-win situation.

The free market at work.

The free market at work.

In an effort to not piss off the delicate Muslim psyche, the US Military has made it almost impossible for a man to get a prostitute while he is in the war zone. There is no interaction with the local populace outside of missions for most troops. There are no flings with Afghan or Iraqi women or meeting a prostitute with a heart of gold. There are no love affairs that are complicated by the horrors of war and cultural differences as drama slowly unfolds, when both parties learn that love can truly conquer anything. There are no bastard children of American men left behind. The closest we came to finding love overseas is through porn and nude pictures of our and other troops whorish, cheating ex-girlfriends we uploaded to “The Drive” and shared with the rest of the base.

Sex was happening in Afghanistan and Iraq, but that occurred in support units where there were mixed genders and among government contractors. As for the combat arms units compromised of solely men(the ones that actually did the fighting), were left in a state of sexual purgatory, without any hope of female companionship. No Afghan damsel worrying whether the American man she loves will make it back. No Iraqi prostitutes eagerly awaiting for her core American cliental to come by. Nothing but masturbation for us while our girlfriends from back home cheated on us or stopped answering our phone calls. Men at war and whores go hand and hand, too bad our times did away with that beautiful tradition.

~Raul Felix

“Me so horny for more blog baby. Give me blog, me love you long time!” Alright: The Military’s Parasite Problem

Politically Incorrect and Loving It

Posted on by Standard 19

“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

OMG, This One Time My Friend Becky and I…

Posted on by Standard 9

A lot of woman lack the ability of effective and memorable funny drunk story telling. What they constitute as a life changing event that everyone would be sure to think is amazing and hilarious is actually a rather mundane and tedious dive into details that really don’t add anything to the listeners day. Let’s take for example, what a woman thinks is a crazy drunk story that is sure to make people slap their knees in laughter.

Her unbelievably crazy story goes painfully like this: “Oh my god… this one time my friend Becky and I got really drunk and stuff. You know like, we were really wasted. We must have drunk like four beers each! Like, oh my god, it was crazy because we started laughing and stumbling all over the place. It got so crazy that she and I danced on the bar. On the bar! Like SO many people were looking at us. Then I got dizzy and I went to the bathroom and vomited. Becky was holding my hair. It was so crazy.”

If you’re a person who has had any real experience with making poor decisions with alcohol, you will realize that there is nothing “crazy” about that story. None of those events are something to be noted and discussed. It’s far too common of an occurrence and it’s on par with talking about your shit of the day. Unless of course, it was real intestine emptier weighing at least 8.6 courics. Same principle applies with your stories, they must be truly unique and outlandish, and not typical drunky fall down.

The fact of the matter is, what constitutes a wild drunk night for most women, is a mellow Tuesday night for us men. Its simple biology, because women weigh less and thus are able to consume less alcohol and thus pass out sooner. Also, women are physically weaker so they’re less of a destructive force when they turn chaotic. The lack of testosterone in their veins makes them less physically aggressive and less likely to get into fight or confrontation, though they are bigger shit talkers behind backs.

While men can tell tomes about their stupid, drunk glory days, what can a woman talk about that will make her nearly as interesting? Female writers, such as Chelsea Handler, have made themselves known by focusing on this area of life that women tend to have ridiculous misadventures in: sex.

Women probably have as many, if not more, whorish behavior stories then men have drunk, idiot stories. The thing is you never quite hear about them. Most females will hint at their sexual promiscuity, but very few will be so bold to speak about the time she behaved like total slut and fucked five guys at the same time and then went to her boyfriend’s and fucked him too. Or how she met some random guy at a concert and sucked his cock inside the porter potty after talking to him for five minutes. This is something they only tell to their close female friends and not something they blurt out at a party.

Perhaps we men are to blame for this. Even in this era of rising feminism and equality, we tend to have a problem with hearing a woman openly talk about her sex life. We really don’t want to hear about or acknowledge the dozens of cocks that have passed through a woman’s orifices. But hot damn, doesn’t it make for some good reading? It’s far more interesting to hear about your sexual high jinks, then your pathetic excuse of a drunk story. Yet, in a catch-22, the thing that will make you more interesting, will also make us less likely to take you seriously as a potential partner. Sure, we’ll fuck your brains out and use you for your body. But make you a girlfriend or wife after learning about all cocks you’ve catered to? I bet a vast majority of men will take issue with it, though there are plenty who couldn’t care either way.

Of course there is more to story telling than talking about drinking and fucking, and there are plenty of female speakers and writers who are damn good at being funny without talking about those subjects. The real complaint is that very few woman’s drunk debauchery stories can hold a candle to a man’s drunk debauchery stories. It’s like being forced to a watch a little league baseball game when you really want to watch a major league baseball game. If you want to speak about a “really crazy night” tell us about that time you fucked the entire football team and then showed up to church the next morning reeking of booze and semen. Oh my god, now that’s crazy.

~Raul Felix

A Non-Bullshit Story: The Gay Meth Story

Outside Feature on Sass & Balderdash

Posted on by Standard 6

Yes, boys and girls, I have expanded my horizons and taken the next step in my writing. Katie, writer, owner, and slave driver of Sass & Balderdash has been so kind to give me the opportunity to do my first ever guest post. You may have noticed Katie as one my of consistent commenters on my site and she is herself a very talented writer with a snarky, sassy attitude. Now go click the following link and check out my latest entry entitled, “Four Ways to Please Your High-Value Man.” Do it now!

~Raul Felix

The Military’s Parasite Problem

Posted on by Standard 22

There is a terrible parasite that can be seen throughout the military community in the United States. It goes unseen by the general public and the US government refuses to acknowledge its existence and the severity of the problem. Those with any time spent in the deep labyrinth of the US military have first hand accounts and know many a Joe who has fallen to these vicious leeches.

What is this unspeakable evil that has engulfed the military so? Why are there so many of our innocent American fighting men falling prey to it? To answer these questions, one must give a deep background into the mentality and conditions of the average enlisted Joe. For the sake of clarity, these descriptions tend to apply to males.

Most enlisted men in the military join from the ages 17-20, have no to some college education, and come from lower to lower-middle class families. Individual motivations greatly differ, from patriotism, adventure, college money, a step-up in life, heartbreak, or plain out boredom with their current state in life. For the most part, once they finish basic training, advance individual training, and whatever additional schools they go to, they end up at their unit with more money in their bank accounts than they have ever possessed in their lives.

Going from being broke to having a significantly higher level of expendable income is more than Joe’s fiscally illiterate mind can handle. They go to the mall and buy expensive clothes, shoes, big screen TV’s, video games, laptops, eat fancy dinners, and will even sign a loan of 13.99%APR on car that costs more than their annual income.

You’re probably thinking that fiscal irresponsibility is the parasite, but it’s not, that’s just the cut that attracts the true bloodsucker. Many Joe’s fall for the lowest of the low, the women who prey on men in uniform. These women tend to be overweight, ugly, and severely uneducated. We’re not talking about not having a college degree uneducated, we’re talking about where it’s questionable that they’ve ever read a book that didn’t have picture that popped out uneducated. What these women lack in redeeming human qualities they make up tenfold in shrewdness and shameless manipulation.

These living potato sacks will congregate at the local malls, dive bars, WalMarts, and under 21 night clubs in hopes of finding a military man that they can sink their whorish claws into. You see, Joe is very lonely, is away from home, and everything he has ever known. He lives in the barracks and if he’s in a combat arms unit, is surrounded by men most of his days. He doesn’t have access to the social life that most 18-22 college students do, where cute girls are in overabundance and meeting new people occurs frequently. His main social circle is the men in his squad and platoon, most of who are also not locals. So Joe goes off in search of companionship in the local community.

One day, poor, lonely Joe meets one of these creatures while walking around the mall. She is receptive of his advances since she can tell he is in the military by his high-and-tight and slim physique. Joe, desperate for companionship, is willing to overlook the many physical and character flaws this woman obviously possesses and instead focus on her not so unsightly features. Justifying to himself that he can at least pee in her butt until he finds someone better.

Oh, poor naive Joe, he thinks this devious wench will just let him leave that easily. She will speak grandly of her plans in life. How she wants to go back to school and get her degree, how she wants to lose the extra pounds in her body, and how she’s meaning to read more, but her job as a cashier at WalMart is too taxing. Joe will start to believe that this woman isn’t too bad after all. He is lonely, she is a decent fuck, and he is making okay money. He hasn’t really had much success with other women. The wench knows Joe isn’t doing too bad with that fancy car and big screen TV he possesses in his barracks room. She knows that military men have health insurance and if she can lock one down into marriage, she can get it too. Something her trailer trash roots would never have thought possible.

Joe is getting sick of living in the barracks and in its twisted logic;the military rewards service members who make poor decisions in their lives; such as getting married, with a pay boost called Basic Allowance for Housing (BAH). Simply by getting married to some random whore, Joe can nearly double his pay for doing the exact same job. Little does he know that the wench has made the decision for him. She is now pregnant with what is supposedly his child. She paints a fancy picture of the beautiful life they can have together and how she will forever support him. Joe, being a semi-honorable man, decides to do what is right and gets married to the mother of “his” child.

It’s all down hill from there. She spurts out child after child. Compounds her body size significantly and wears a faded, XXXL sized “Proud Military Spouse” shirt every where she goes. To compliment it, she also has a “Spouse: Hardest Job in the Military” bumper sticker to gain pity about how tough her life is. What about her dreams of going to college? All a ruse to make her seem like she has real ambitions other than being a leech. She quits her job at Wal-Mart and never gets another, claiming to be too overwhelmed by the children. She often cheats on Joe while he is doing a training exercise in the field or while he is deployed.

Joe’s life is miserable, this woman is the bane of his existence. But he can’t do anything about it. He is trapped in the military for the next couple of years, working 60-80 hours a week for what now seems like shit pay since his ogre of a wife spends it all and has maxed out his credit cards. He gets treated like shit at work and gets treated like shit at home. Joe sees no way out. He only joined the military because he wanted to go to war and kill people, then so he could go to college using his GI Bill. He is forced to reenlist for another four years. How else is he going to support a wife and three kids who may or may not be his?

Joe’s problems don’t end there though. One night he drinks a few too many with his boys back in the barracks and comes home drunk out of his mind. He vents out his frustration at the wife and how he thinks she is a whore and questions whether the kids are his and then passes out. The wench, seeing an opportunity, calls the police, has Joe arrested and claims that he hit her. Now, Joe is on lock down in the barracks ordered by his chain of command. The wench now has free-reign to get gang banged by other service members who don’t know Joe. Mean while, Joe is hapless, so he resorts to using his own tears for lube when he jerks off. They eventually get divorced, Joe’s bank account is depleted, has his pay garnished to pay for kids he later finds out aren’t his, but since the law sides with the “poor, victimized” woman, is forced to pay for anyways. A week later he uses the little bit that is left of his pay check to celebrate his 21st birthday.

~Raul Felix

You liked that you little wench? Have some more: Four Things You Didn’t Think of Before Joining the Army.

The Pick-Up Follies: Sleazy-E’s Revenge

Posted on by Standard 17

It was all going so well. One moment I’m in with this group of girls who were totally digging me and the next I’m jumping around like a baboon trying to figure out what the fuck happened. My best friend from high school, “Sleazy-E” leering and smirking at me as his swiftly delivered revenge dealt a punishing blow to my ego. He walks up to me and says, “Revenge is a bitch.”

To make sense of this, I have to take you back to the previous weekend. I had just returned home on leave from my first deployment to Iraq. Always excited to have me back in town, Sleazy-E invited me to a house party some students from his university were hosting. Being a 19 year old kid who had not been to a real party in ages, I was more than eager to join.

We arrived at the party, which was located at some suburban house in Riverside. It was a pretty standard college party, most of the people there knowing Sleazy-E in one capacity or another. Sleazy-E pumping me up to be a big deal by saying, “This is my friend Raul and he just came back from Iraq and fought for your freedom!” to everyone he introduced me to.

Most of the college students were asking me the same standard questions they ask every veteran: “Was it hot there…” “See any of those freaky camel spiders…” “You kill anybody…” “What do you think of George W…” “Fuck any of those Arab chicks…” “I would have joined, but…” and so on.

Though it was a decent size party, the girl to guy ratio was atrocious, so I was on a scouting mission for some poon. At one point, I saw this cute blonde that Sleazy-E was talking to. Not thinking much of it, I come up and start talking to her also. As Sleazy-E and I talk and drink with her, I get the feeling she is more into me than into him.

Sleazy-E goes away for a moment and I start heavily flirting with the blonde. He returns and is boxed out and I fail to notice that he is quite upset that I have cock blocked him. Eventually, I get a peck on the lips from her and her number. We eventually leave the party, and I’m oblivious to the fact that Sleazy-E would let this event boil deep inside his core and wait for the proper moment to get revenge.

Fast forward to the next weekend. Sleazy-E’s fraternity is hosting a party and I get invited. I show up and do the standard drinking, socializing, and talking about pseudo-intellectual bull shit that college aged kids tend to talk about because they have the world figured out. I wasn’t having much success with any of the girls I was hitting on. That is, until a group of three girls took a liking to the fact that I was in the Army.

I ran with this. Talking highly of myself and my Army career for the next few years and they were eating it up. The voluptuous Latina girl who was an overall 7 was my target of choice. The group and especially the Latina grew more and more interested in me. Even allowing me to rest my hand on her leg, which is my standard move to see if it’s good to escalate to the next step. Confident that I have this locked down and they’ll wait a few minutes for me, I go to the bathroom to take a piss.

Little did that I know Sleazy-E was watching this interaction and a ploy to get even was brewing in his head. He walks up to them, makes small talk, and then drops this.

Sleazy-E: “Have you met this guy named Raul? Apparently he goes around to parties and says he is in the Army. I think that’s kind of sad. He even had a fake military ID made. But in reality he is just a garbageman.”

Girls: “What? Really?”

Sleazy-E: “Yeah, well I have to go to the bathroom. See you ladies later.”

I come back to the group of girls and notice Sleazy-E leaving them, but think nothing of it.

Raul: “Hey ladies…”

Girls: “We heard something interesting about you. Just wanted to let you know that you don’t have to lie to us. We think you’re cool and have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Raul: “Huh? What are you talking about?”

Girls: “That you’re really a garbageman.”

Raul: “What? No I’m not! I’m a fucking soldier!”

Girls: “Come on now, someone told us that you say that to impress girls. Its kind of messed up you know? There are real soldiers out there risking their lives. Just because you aren’t one doesn’t mean you’re not a valuable part of a society.”

Raul: “What the fuck! But I am a fucking soldier! I just got back from Iraq! Here is my military ID to prove it.”

Girls: “We heard you got a fake one. That’s really sad.”

Raul: “What the fuck? I’m a god damn veteran! Why don’t you believe me? Why the fuck would I lie about that?”

Girls: “We don’t know, but we don’t talk to liars. It was nice meeting you. Maybe if you truly want to be a solider, you should just join the Army instead of lying about it.”

Raul: “What the hell is happening?”

I continued to frantically press my case that I wasn’t an impostor and in fact the real deal, but the girls weren’t having it and they walked away. Sleazy-E came up to me with a huge shit-eating grin because his planned worked out perfectly.

I spent the night completely mind fucked by the experience and spiraled into a vicious cycle of drinking, getting rejected, drinking some more, getting rejected some more, and settled into a lonely, pussyless stupor.

I know you’re reading this Sleazy-E, with a huge self-satisfied grin on your face. Fuck you!

~Raul Felix

Note: Make sure to read the comments for Sleazy-E’s and Kendawgs version of said events.

Read about my other failures in life: The Pick-Up Follies: Taqueria Hottie

She Wants Me

Posted on by Standard 3

I operate under the mind set that every single woman wants my cock, they just don’t know it yet. I can be walking by a cute girl sitting at a bus stop and she will briefly glance at me for no more than half a second. “Oh yeah, you want my cock you dirty little slut,” immediately goes running through my mind. Poor little thing is just so shy that she can’t help but look away when she see’s such a fine specimen of manhood. It’s okay, young lady, we weren’t all meant to handle the glory that is I.

Its kind of sad, really, that there is only one Raul Felix and there are only so many women I can love. I am the essences of what every woman dreams about in a man: tall, dark, handsome, muscular, impeccable hair, smart, funny, witty, confident and I fuck like a god. But alas, most of them are not worthy. Sorry ladies, but I keep my standards high when alcohol is not running through my veins. When it is, I’m usually too much of a dick head to care about getting laid.

Now don’t get your adorable little red panties in a bunch. While you can’t have me, there are plenty of other men who will take you. I know, I know, it makes you cry and may bring you to the verge of suicide, but please, consider your friends and family; they’ll miss you and may even love the homely you. Just because you can’t have the best, doesn’t mean you can’t settle for the rest.

It’s actually really tough being as dashing as I am. Women always staring at me, wanting me to rip their off clothes and spread their legs open for me to shove in my poon destroyer. They want me to bite down on their lip, slap their ass, and with laser focus, look at them in the eye as I make any male they have been with before obsolete.

Oh yes, it’s a curse really, for they only know the surface me. They don’t know the depths of my mind and soul. The ambitions and dreams that I have. If they did, it would overwhelm them and make their girlie parts so dripping wet that it would ruin their favorite pair of jeans.

Okay, cute girl at the bus stop, I’ll approach you and make your dreams come true.

“Hey, I’m Raul… what’s your name?” I say coyly.

“I have a boyfriend, sorry,” she responds.

I walk away. Some women just can’t appreciate greatness when it appears before them. Oh well, her loss, poor little thing.

~Raul Felix

Want to read more? Read: Shy Girl

Influences: Maddox, Tucker Max, APB, TC Luoma

Posted on by Standard 17

Every person who is worth a damn has had people who have inspired and influenced them. It can take the form of direct one on one lessons or through reading and watching. Either way, these mentors helped develop their actions and mindset for better or worse. It doesn’t matter whether you’re seeking to become an underwater basket weaver, stripper, rocket surgeon, or a writer on a self-named blog with hopes that it will get you hot blog groupies after they see how funny and clever your writing is and thus crave your cock; there are mentors out there for you. For my writing ambitions, dark sense of humor, and my mindset on life, the following four internet writers are my biggest influences.

Maddox

Quite possibly the first true internet satirists. Maddox has had his page, The Best Page in the Universe, online since 1997. His headline: “This page is about me and why everything I like is great. If you disagree with anything you find on this page, you are wrong,” kicks you right in the taint and lets you know that your little dip shit opinion doesn’t matter. So much so that he even has a link to his hate mail and his responses to said hate mail, exposing the logical fallacies of its sender.

Maddox writes about beating your kids, killing yourself in very awesome ways, heavily criticizes little kids on their shitty art, and how big his balls are. He rants about minor and major things that annoy him everyday life. He portrays himself as the essence of manliness and his writing bursts with testosterone. So much so, in fact, that he wrote a book called The Alphabet of Manliness that became an instant New York Times Best Seller.

Careful ladies, this book will turn your clit into a dick.

Careful ladies, this book will turn your clit into a dick.

I discovered Maddox in 2003 when I was 15 years old. Though I’ve seen and read many funny stuff by that time, his complete disregard for what is appropriate to write about and what isn’t laid the framework for my humor. I found myself reading his whole entire archive in one night and eagerly awaiting updates for his next article. I would share them with my friends, some liked it and some hated it. I learned through his writing that humor really has no limits, to stand by ones writing, and never try to please anyone. He states that his site started with fewer than 5 readers a month and got to the point of a million readers a month through a lot of hardwork and not bitching and moaning people to link to him.

Tucker Max

The most famous name on this list. With his infamous introduction, “My name is Tucker Max, and I am an asshole.” Tucker Max sets the stage for the internet phenomena known as The Tucker Max Stories. These are epic and wonderfully crafted tales of drunkenness, sexual promiscuity, and highly inappropriate and outlandish behavior. Mostly occurring when he was 20-28, he writes about having anal sex for the first time, the first midget he fucked, and the ego crushing knowledge that he may not be the only man a woman has fucked that day.

What makes it shocking to prudes with no real sense of reality, is that The Tucker Max stories are real. These events actually occurred and he has fucked all these moronic whores, caused all this havoc, and called out all the losers that he detailed in his stories. He has done all of this and still is with us today. People call his life surreal and over-exaggerated (because their idiots), but he even claims that he hasn’t really done anything that isn’t out of the ordinary. Guys have fucked sluts and gotten drunk since the beginning of time, he was just the first to write about it.

This man is the reason I have lost faith in womankind. Thanks Tucker!

This man is the reason I have lost faith in womankind. Thanks Tucker!

The unique thing about Tucker Max’s writing is that underneath the comedy and shenanigans, there are many life lessons to be had. When I first started reading his work at age 19, I was in a more innocent frame of mind about women and their whorish mannerisms. So when I read his stories, I was a bit shocked that women would go for a guy like this. I kept on reading on and discovered why. As much of an asshole as Tucker was, he had confidence in himself and didn’t take shit from anybody. He had the balls to approach and get rejected. He would call out women on their bull shit and they either loved him or hated him. One thing he wasn’t though, was a carpet to for them to walk over. Women don’t respect a man they can walk all over, much less fuck him. It started to make sense why those girls I wanted before wouldn’t have me and fucked some other asshole. Because I was nice. So I began to apply those lessons to my life, stopped being nice, and became more aggressive. My success with women steadily improved and compounded.

Angry Patriotic Bastard

In a time when there were too many apologetic Americans complaining about the evil empire that we have become, came along Angry Patriotic Bastard. Even though his blog was short-lived and he hasn’t written in over seven years, his message stayed with me. APB loved to talk shit on the pussification that has come of American culture. Having absolutely no qualms about calling out the things he truly hated, he would write blog post after blog post of politically incorrect rhetoric attacking hippies, bicyclists, muslims, and Florida rednecks.

No one was above the scrutiny of APB’s political mind set. He believed in an America where we are on top of the food chain and every nation bowed to our powerful, raging cock of freedom. In his mindset, like it or not, America dominates the world. If we don’t’ control you economically, we control you with our pop culture. How many of you are using products designed by Americans and made by little slave Chinese kids? You’re damn right it’s not going to be little slave American kids making that shit. They’re too busy being molested by their step-father.

AMERICA! MOTHER FUCKER!

AMERICA! MOTHER FUCKER!

His writing style is very aggressive and hellbent on offending you, pulling it off in a masterful way. While I personally try to avoid political subjects in my writing, because I find it exhausting to keep up with and it becomes irrelevant a couple of weeks or months later, he was able to create timeless political writing that if you read it today, still applies and will make you laugh your ass off.

TC Luoma

On the calmer side of the spectrum comes TC Luoma. He writes for the bodybuilding website, T-Nation in his series called The Atomic Dog, later renamed The Testosterone Principles. The main theme is becoming a better man. Better yet, not being a pussified modern man that feminism(stupid cunts) has pushed onto us. Instead become a man who embraces his testosterone, who shamelessly pursues the good things in life: women, beer, working out, meat, and sex.

As shallow as those subject matters sound, his writing always has an underlying tone of taking accountability and responsibility for your life. To pursue a life of constant learning, reading, and improving over all. Whether it’s chasing your dream to become poker player or getting out of the rat race that is the norm of our society.

He hates how our society has become more feminine and estrogen centered, and how testosterone gets a bad name for being seen as too aggressive and ape like. He points out that testosterone is the reason behind all that drive us as humans. Men with higher testosterone are smarter, stronger, have a higher libido, and are more ambitious than men of lower testosterone levels. Men with low testosterone tend to be fucking slobs, losers, scrawny, or overweights sacks of shit.

And his hair is glorious.

And his hair is glorious.

Through his writings, I’ve learned to embrace my manhood unapologetically. I’m a man and I will act like one. I expect my woman to act like a woman and be feminine. Fuck that politically correct bull shit.

Their writing is low-brow, unacademic, and not meant for those who suffer from having sand in their vagina. But these men have had more of an influence on the development of my mind than any school, teacher, or professor.

~Raul Felix

You like that? Good! Check out: Four Things You Didn’t Think of Before Joining the Army.

The Pick-Up Follies: The Gimp

Posted on by Standard 12

It was the summer of my third year in the military and I got a phone call from my Army buddy, “Schooner”:

Schooner: “Hey bro, what the fuck are you doing?”

Raul: “Nothing, what’s up?”

Schooner: “Come down to Olympia. I’m with two chicks and they’re down to fuck. I told them about you and they want to meet you.”

Raul: “Sweet, I’ll be over there”

I say without missing a beat.

I jump into my truck and drive down to Olympia, WA to the address he text me. I get to a small suburban neighborhood and locate the house. I knock on the door and a blonde, mediocre looking girl, barely clearing the age of 18 opens it. Then from behind her, comes out Schooner. He leads me to the living room of their house. I find out that the Blonde is a friend with the girl who rents the place. Then from the kitchen, walking awkwardly, comes the “The Gimp.”

As I sit there and listen to them talk, I found out more about The Gimp. She is decent looking woman, aged 28, is about 4’11” and weighs no more than 100 pounds. She had small breasts and no ass. Pretty much a walking, limping stick with a decent looking face. I wonder why she is walking like that, so I whisper to Schooner:

Raul: “Why the fuck is she walking like that?”

Schooner: “Her spine is fucked up. She got in a car accident a few years ago.”

Raul: “Oh, that fucking sucks.”

Schooner: “Yeah, but she is slutty as hell.”

Raul: “Cool.”

At this time in my life I wasn’t the ladies man that I am today. It was sporadic when I hooked up with random chicks. So I wasn’t really in a position to be too picky about a potential dick wetting experience. She brought me a beer and asked:

The Gimp: “Do you know Snuffy and Snaplink?”

Raul: “Yeah, Snuffy lives on the same floor as me and Snaplink is always at his room drinking and playing video games.”

The Gimp: “Yeah, they’re hot, I fucked both of them at same time the other night.”

I sit there not knowing how to respond. Back then I was relatively innocent of the knowledge of how big of utter whores women can be and had not fully developed my jaded and dark attitude towards them.

Raul: “That’s cool.”

I sit there silently thinking to myself that all I want to do is get the fuck out of there. My sexual moral compass was that of a nice kid who wanted to only fuck a girl he cared about and maybe have random hook ups with slightly slutty girls who “usually don’t do that sorta thing.” Not full blown whores whose pussy walls have catered to hundreds of cocks. At least lie to me, bitch.

Schooner and the Blonde start making out. The Gimp grabs my hand and leads me to her bedroom. I’ve barely talked to this girl and she is already leading me to her bedroom. I don’t resist. I start feeling a bulge developing in my pants at the thought that I’m going to fuck her. “Whatever, she’s not that bad looking,” I justify to myself. “I have condom, so I’ll be good.” As we cross the threshold of her room, I smack her almost nonexistent ass, she turns around, and we start kissing. Then I throw her down on her bed and jump on top of her.

The Gimp: “Shhhh… we’re going to have to be quiet. My baby is sleeping.”

Raul: “What?”

The Gimp: “My baby, she’s sleeping.”

She points to the crib I didn’t notice and in there was a baby, no older than three months, sleeping. I didn’t want to know anything about her baby’s daddy, so I refrained from asking. I’m sure if they were still together, I wouldn’t be the last guy she’d cheat on him with. We continue to kiss and I undress her down to her bra and panties. As I work my hands down to her panties, I notice what could only be described as a perfect irony, her panties had a huge cherry right on the crotch. I take a half-second to smile to myself, which I’m sure she misinterpreted as excitement.

As I pull them off, it hits me like a bag of rocks. A very foul stench. What the fuck? Confused, I pause to think of the source of this, and then I realize its coming from her pussy. Holy fuck. This bitch’s pussy smells worse than a fish market on a hot day. I compose myself and quickly think of an escape plan. No way am I fucking or touching that reeking clam of death.

Raul: “Oh shit!”

The Gimp: “What?”

Raul: “I have to go. I forgot that I have to be somewhere very important right now.”

The Gimp: “What? Where?”

Raul: “Don’t worry about it, I just have to go. Sorry.”

I jump out of bed, pick up my clothes, and run to her sink to wash off my face, hands, and use my finger to brush my teeth in a desperate attempt to get the taste and smell of whore off myself.

I step out of her house, get into my truck, and drive off. Her nasty, whorish taste still in my mouth, and reeking of her pussy funk. God damn it. Why can’t it ever be good girls who are down to fuck?

EPILOGUE: I later learned The Gimp was notorious for fucking guys from my unit. I’ve heard of many guys fucking her, maybe she actually washed herself beforehand. But knowing the sexual standards of some of the men I served with, it didn’t matter. She is and will forever be known compassionately as The Gimp. It wouldn’t surprise me if she is being double penetrated right now.

To recap, it wasn’t her whorish behavior that drove me away, or that she probably still had juices from another man inside her, or the fact that her freshly minted baby was right next to us. It was her wretched, stinky pussy. So ladies, take heed, if you’re going to act like a whore, at least don’t smell like one.

~Raul Felix

Strip Club Blues

Posted on by Standard 9

(c) Dandy Danny

Oh, the wonders of the strip club. The raping that is the entrance fee, the overpriced drinks, and the black lights exposing every little bit of white lint on your black t-shirt. Lets not forget the stickiness of the floors, the aura of pity surrounding the geezers and obese men, and the distinctive smell of a strippers skin, covered in coconut milk lotion, perfume, and glitter in an effort to mask their dead souls. A true wonderland of silicone breasts, C-Section scars, big badonkadonks, and athletic to fat figures.

Recalling the old elementary school rhyme, “There’s a place in France where the naked women dance.” One used to wonder what was so special about France that made naked women dance? Then we learn that there are such places in America, first introduced to many of us by the legendary Al Bundy as The Nudie Bar. As an ignorant and horny youth, it’s one of the places that most young men look forward to visiting. Moms beauty magazines, stolen Hustlers, and online porn do sustain us while we wait; but what can compare to seeing a real life woman dancing and letting you see, and quite possibly touch, her boobies! It’s a young mans right to throw dollar bills at women dancing to support their cocaine habit and/or two kids by two different men.

Of course, in youthful innocence one doesn’t know the bitter reality that actually occurs at these ballrooms of nudity. Images of Al Bundy and the members of No Ma’am getting wild, dancing on the stage with a babe with Rocky Mountain breasts are soon exposed as lies! Upon entering, one is immediately surrounded with an overwhelming amount of testosterone. Businessmen, young GIs, thugs, college kids, and loners occupy some of the best seats. Which wouldn’t be so bad, if it wasn’t for the dead silence of the place other than the music. It isn’t the dungeon of nude wackiness that Married With Children lead us to believe.

As one sits drinking their watered down drink, strippers come around offering to give you and your buddies the dance of a lifetime for $15 for two songs. You do the math in your head and quickly think about how much money you have in your pocket. You pass on this one, she’s not the type of girl you’re looking for. A few more strippers offer and you promptly deny. You have some money to blow, but not that much. You said to yourself you’re not going to spend more than $70 tonight. You already spent $20 on the entry fee and $15 on the two mandatory drinks. You are only going to get one lap dance, maybe two. So you’re going to make it worth it. You’re waiting for the right one to come along that fits your taste.

As your two buddies are each getting a lap dance from a beautiful blond with an athletic build and a petite Asian girl, your eyes are focused on the stage. You’re gawking at her: A curvy, caramel colored mixed Latina/White dancer twirling around the pole upside-down, her brown hair flailing chaotically. She is wearing an American Flag patterned bikini that can barely contain her large breasts. Since you don’t have any singles, you ask your buddy to give you $2. As she finishes her set and picks up the money that is scattered throughout the stage, you walk up to her, pull her g-string back, stuff the $2 in, snap it back and say with a devilish grin,“Come to my table.” She smiles at you and nods.

As she is grinding your crotch and placing her immaculate breasts on your face to motorboat, your finger tips are rubbing her ass ever so gently as to not catch the eye of the bouncers. Your two song are up. She asks if you want another dance. You don’t want her to leave. You haven’t had enough of her. Yes, you do. Another set, another $15. Once it’s complete, she sits next you and runs her hands through your hair. “You’re pretty cute, you know,” she tells you in her soft, accented voice. You start talking to her about yourself and your silly hopes and dreams. She tells you about how she became a stripper and about how she is not like the other girls in the strip club. In fact, she can’t stand them and thinks they’re all a bunch of self-absorbed cunts. Her stage name is Candy, but since you two have formed such a true connection she tells you her real name is Jessica.

After ten minutes of discussing your lives and philosophies, Jessica asks you if you want another dance. You do, you really do. You walk over to the ATM that charges a $10 transaction fee and take out $200. “Okay, I’ll only spend $100 of this and save the rest for later.” Thirty minutes later, your $100 is gone. You continue to talk to Jessica and you realize she doesn’t fit the cocaine addict, single mother, soulless stripper stereotype. She is just a sweet, down to earth girl trying to make some good money until she makes it as an actress. You’re struggling to make something out of yourself, so you understand the pain and suffering of having to do a job you don’t really like until you make it. You two are kindred spirits. You use your second $100. You want more of Jessica and head to the ATM and pull out another $200.

After spending a good hour and a half with this enlightened soul trapped in the stripping profession, you know you have no more money in your bank account that you can blow. But you built such a deep connection with this woman in the process and you’re sure she is completely into you. “All right, I think I’ll let you go for tonight, but before you leave how about I get your number?” You ask. Jessica smiles back at you and gives you a big ol’ hug and says, “I would because you’re sweet, cute, and funny, but I have a boyfriend. I’m so sorry, but you’re going to come back and visit me sometime right?” Your heart sinks, but you lay out a big smile and say, “Of course.”

After you leave the strip club on an emotional high, it hits you. You just spent $490 in 2 hours. That’s a painful amount of money to lose for your broke ass and pay day is not for another 10 days. You got played by a world class saleswoman. You’re pissed at yourself and you’re determined to stick to your $70 budget next time, unlike the previous five times.

~Raul Felix