For The Women

Posted on by Standard 9

“If there hadn’t been women we’d still be squatting in a cave eating raw meat, because we made civilization in order to impress our girlfriends.”
-Orson Welles

Behind every form of art composed by a man there is an ulterior motive. Artistic expression is important and good for the soul, but what a man is truly trying to do is attract the attention of higher quality woman than he would have other wise. I trudge forward each day, not only because I know this what I want to do with my life on a professional level, but because as an added benefit, my little artsy fartsyness attracts the attention and forms a connection with women I wouldn’t have otherwise.

Successful and ambitious men are valued higher to women than not-so-successful and slothful ones. The more success a man gains throughout his lifetime, the more value he has to prospective women. The quantity and quality of his options increases dramatically. The driving force behind everything we do as men is to get more and better pussy, plain and simple. John Mayer can fuck at least 80% of the women who go to his concerts. Same holds true of Tucker Max with women who go to his book signings and Ray Lewis with women who are Baltimore Raven fans.

I’m not a fully successful man yet. I have to work my ass off for every piece of pussy I get. I get rejected by 90-95% of the women I approach. Women don’t just offer themselves up to me. I have to play the game like everyone else. A game where women have the distinct advantage because all they have to do is dress up slutty, show some cleavage, not be total repulsive freaks, keep their cuntish attitudes to a minimum, and they’ll have men hitting on them and offering to buy them drinks.

I play it hard. I have to say the right thing to peak her interest, I have to have the look she is attracted to, she has to be in the right mood to be hit on, and her friends have to not be cock blockers who will box me out. Yes, you girls know exactly what the fuck I am talking about. That little box out move you pull where you grab your friend, have her dance or talk close to you, put your backs towards the guy, then ignore him completely and act aloof while averting eye contact. You’re not sly, but whatever you got to do to keep creepers away right?

How important is success value? I’ll share with you a short tale. I was home on leave just freshly back from a deployment and went to a bar on Main Street, Huntington Beach. I started talking to this cute blonde girl and totally dropped the I’m an Army Ranger and freshly back from combat bomb in an effort to get her panties wet. It worked. She was digging me, rubbing up on me, and laughing at my shitty jokes. Things were going well. Then, her cunt of a friend strolls up to her and says something about how she met some guys who were defensive linemen for the University of Southern California. The chick grabs the blonde’s hand and took her away easily. Guess who banged the blonde and who went home to jerk off using his own tears as lubrication?

I can’t hate on those guys. They worked hard to become defensive players who were good enough to play at the college level. She obviously thought it was more impressive that they were college football players than the fact that I was a veteran. She was most likely just pumped and dumped by them any ways. The lesson is learned: Excelling at a form of entertainment makes women go after you and puts you in a better position to have your pick to use and discard them as you wish, and have your choice of the highest quality ones to make your significant other.

Why does a man play music? Yes, to express himself, but also because it makes the groupies in the front row privates tingle. Why does he paint a painting? Cause those artsy chicks dig it and will suck his cock. Why does he write? Because women who love his writing will write to him and offer their bodies. Even a man as ugly as Charles Bukowski had lovely women half his age clamoring to be pounded by him.

I don’t have athletic, musical, or painting talent. I’m not the smoothest talker and while I’m nice looking, I’m not great looking. However, I have writing talent. This is the place where I turn the tables in my favor. Day by day I hone myself. I’m obscure, I’m a nobody, and it’s going to be that way for a while. As I build myself, I’ll start getting messages from female fans who want to be more than just fans. It will be a random one here and there at first. Then a few more and a couple of chicks offering to do a threesome. Until, one day, I hit the big time and I’ll have more sexual offers thrown at me than I can handle. Then I’ll start to wonder if these women actually like me for the real me or my image, money, and fame. I’ll then write a post about how women are gold digging bitches and how I wish I could find a good girl to be with like the type who liked me when I was a nobody.

Those days are far ahead. Meanwhile, I’ll keep my scrappy and hungry attitude. Roll your eyes now, but one day, the words I write, will win over the hearts of the best of you.

P.S. As for why women and homosexual men create art, I don’t fucking know. I’m neither one of those.

~Raul Felix

If you’re not the best, you may be the rest: I’d Pee in Her Butt

My Personal Independence Day

Posted on by Standard 4

The 4th of July holds a double meaning for me. The most obvious one is the independence of our great nation from those tea taxing Brits. In addition to that, the 4th of July of 2009 was the day I got my personal freedom back. It was my ETS(End Term of Service) day. Civilian types don’t quite understand the large feeling of burden that is lifted off of ones shoulders and soul when they are no longer an indentured servant to the big green machine that is the United States Army.

I had saved up a month of paid leave and was able to go on terminal leave on June 4th. I was still officially part of the Army when I left Fort Lewis, Washington and headed on my motorcycle trip around the United States. One month later, I was in the small town of Pagosa Springs, Colorado.

The day had been rather uneventful, and I was headed to Colorado Springs after spending a couple of nights in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The ride turned out to take longer than expected, so I decided to pick a nice enough looking small town to spend the night at and Pagosa Springs was it.

I walked around town and the locals were gathering for the Independence Day festivities. It was full, but not overwhelmingly so. I had some dinner, then headed to one of the bars, while there someone told me there would be a firework show in about an hour. I attempted to make friends with some people, but no one was interested in me or my story. I sat at the bar drinking a couple of beers alone while watching people dance until the firework show started.

I went outside and found a place to sit to watch the fireworks. I was surrounded by families drinking, eating, and laughing. I sipped on my beer in silence, not attempting to talk to anyone. The fireworks started. I began thinking about how this show was not just for America, but for me specifically. I’m done, its official, I’m out of the Army. The days where I could say being a soldier was my profession were behind me.

No one there knew who I was or what I had done for this country, but it didn’t matter, because I’m sure amongst them there were veterans who had done way more than I have. I thought of the hundreds of missions I went on as a Stryker driver through the streets of Baghdad and Mosul. I started thinking of the soldiers I knew: the ones who didn’t make it back, the ones who mentored me, the ones who smoked my balls off, the ones who were my friends, even the ones I hated. How we each did our part.

The families were in glee of the fireworks. I missed my friends and family from California. I thought about my mom. How she cried her eyes out and gave me an uncountable amount of kisses the day I left for basic training. How she constantly worried about me during my entire time in the Army and was prouder of me than words could describe. I thought about the rest of my family and friends. How each one showed me support in the best way they could. I thought about the drunken bull shit my best friends had to put up from me when I was home on leave. A smile came across my face because there was a lot of it and it was piled high.

There were couples holding each other. I thought about the various women I had been with that I had met during my time in. Yet one woman consumed my thoughts, my only ex-girlfriend. I thought about how we met, how she became the first woman I ever truly loved, and how we had a roller-coaster of a relationship amplified by my alcoholism and her drug use. One which had its bitter fall out when it ended while on one of my deployments to Iraq. I didn’t feel hatred at that moment, but rather loneliness, for it would have been wonderful to embrace her at that very moment as the night sky filled with brightness.

The fireworks ended. People clapped and cheered. I sat there in silence. Everyone was celebrating our freedom; I was celebrating regaining mine. It was over. It was a wild four and a half years. Years that will never escape me. I sat there as an invisible visitor, in a town whose very existence I learned of only a few hours earlier. Just like the Army, once I would leave, it wouldn’t feel the difference. I wondered if I truly was ready to take on the real world. I left the Army, the same way I joined it, alone.

~Raul Felix

“What else can you tell us about the military?” That there are a bunch of whores of housewives in it: The Military’s Parasite Problem

Lost in Manhood

Posted on by Standard 18

I’ll admit it, sometimes I feel lost in this thing called manhood. There are times and days when I feel like I am on track toward becoming the man that I want to become. Other days, I feel derailed and demotivated. On those days I look back and wonder what the fuck I did with those 24 hours. The answer is disheartening: nothing, and a lot of it. That’s when I look deeply at the reflection in the mirror and spit at it in disgust.

There is no urgency for me to completely grow up. I don’t have crushing student loans, a mortgage, or car payments. I don’t have a serious relationship with the prospect of marriage in the foreseeable future. I’ve even managed to avoid the ultimate crux of being Mexican: getting a chick pregnant at a young age. No little Raul Jr running around draining money out of my bank account, crushing and shitting on my dreams with his mere existence. My working theory is that it’s because I specialize in fucking and dating white chicks who dislike their fathers enough to be with a dark skinned man, but not so much that they want to be with a black guy. Hispanic chicks can’t be trusted to fuck without condoms even in relationships; they’re insanely fertile and since a vast majority of them come from overbearing catholic families, abortion is not an option. Asian chicks never dig me because they know dating me will bring great shame to their family.

Raul Felix only has to only worry about Raul Felix. Since I am very self-centered and a bit aloof to what others feel, it’s a pretty easy task. I’m the only male in my family over the age of 23 who isn’t married or doesn’t have a little shit-machine ankle biter. However, that doesn’t mean I never want that. When I picture how my future will be like, I see a beautiful wife with ample breasts and an amazing ass who I will have hotter sex with than two bunnies in a wool sock. As fuck trophies, there will be a couple of Felix spawn roaming around wreaking havoc.

I’m 26, in a few days I’ll be 27, and all I can think about is: what the fuck is the rush? My generation, Generation Y, we’re expected to live well into our mid-80’s on average, even to our 90’s and 100’s. That’s a long ass time to be a responsible member of society.

Whenever I meet an older person, male or female, I always ask them what they would have done differently if they could do it all again. The most consistent responses are: get an education in a real major, one that actually gives you a real world tangible skill such as engineering. Hold off on marriage and having children until you discover who you are and what you truly want out of life. Travel when you are young and free of responsibilities.

I don’t have a college degree, so according to my boy Kendawg, I have no right to make fun of him like I constantly do because he made the ill advised decision to major in Archaeology. I just know that a vast majority of people who I know personally who have a humanities degree are not even working in the field they studied in and have no hopes to unless they get their masters and in some cases, PhD. While the people I know personally who have a STEM degree (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math) actually are gainfully employed in those fields. With that knowledge, my other friend, Sleazy-E, and I, in our late 20’s now, have taken it upon ourselves to major in engineering. He in Civil Engineering and myself in Computer Engineering, though we’re both still a long ways off from graduating.

Just from being a writer, I’ve run across a few people who had to pretty much restart their lives after their kids left the nest and are currently struggling to discover who they are. Hell, the cougars I’ve picked up at the bars have shown me first hand how freshly divorced women who didn’t really get to enjoy their 20’s because of the responsibility of a husband and children behave when they get their hands on a half-decent looking man, such as myself. (Hint: if you’re an attractive cougar in the Southern California area, send me an e-mail.)

I feel it is a manifestation of making up for lost time. They want to live the life they never got to enjoy and in my eyes, they have the right to do so. Better late than never, tis grandeur to be a hot cougar on the prowl than a bitter old spinster. For the more ambitious types of men and women it can mean finally going after what they truly dreamed of doing, the thing that they had set aside, but always was lingering in the back of their head, because of the burden of being a grown up.

There is a world of difference between traveling with just backpack on a bums budget and staying in shady hostels and partying with people from all the different places of the world with questionable moral values than traveling with family. There is an insane amount of independence when you travel alone or with just one companion. There is minimal logistics, budgeting, and you’re able to be quite serendipitous with your time and what you do. I’ve traveled through thirty states of the United States on my motorcycle for 2 and a half months, spent three weeks traveling the entire country of Italy on a motorcycle, and backpacked randomly through Western Europe for a month. I can only imagine how lame and how expensive that shit would be with a snot monster to drag around.

Depending on your prospective, I can be seen as a failure or a young man on his way to the top. I don’t really have a hard set career path yet, I don’t make six-figures, I haven’t “manned-up” and decided to just pick a reformed slut who doesn’t meet my high standards for a woman and just get married. I have no stability in my life and I live in a hovel with four room mates who drink too much, curse too much, play too many video games, and have the most obscene sense of humor.

I’ve decided to take the advice of those older people and take my god damn time because why the fuck not? There are a lot of things I want to accomplish before I settle down and become a family man. I want to travel the world on my motorcycle, fuck more women, drink more booze, spit more blood, take big risks, exceed my comfort zone, get my education, and make sure I pick the right career for myself. My bad I’m not a prodigy who has it all figured out by 26. I’m not the most mature and responsible person, but I know enough to know that I don’t want to make huge life commitments until I truly feel I am ready emotionally, financially, and eager to give my all to them without any resentment or regrets. I’m not fully developed, yet, are any of us?

~Raul Felix

“You traveled the US on a motorcycle? Tell me a story!” Alright: The Gay Meth Story

Taking the Hits

Posted on by Standard 19

“The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place, and I don’t care how tough you are, it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward; how much you can take and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done! Now, if you know what you’re worth, then go out and get what you’re worth. But you gotta be willing to take the hits, and not pointing fingers saying you ain’t where you wanna be because of him, or her, or anybody. Cowards do that and that ain’t you.”
-Rocky, Rocky Balboa

Just when you think you have the world by the balls, the world throws a quick, clean, bone shattering haymaker squarely into your jaw. You’re on the floor, dazed. It happened so fast that it seems surreal. The world is standing over you, spitting in your face as it yells insults and in your current state, you’re helpless to do anything about it.

You lay there for a moment or two. That was a powerful hit, probably the hardest one you’ve ever taken. Yet, you’re still alive, it didn’t kill you. In those moments, you think deeply. All the mistakes you’ve made come rushing into your mind. Each one, you analyze deeply and pick apart. What if I had done this? What if I had said that? What if I had understood that before? What if, what if, what if…

Another moment passes. You feel hopeless, self-doubt creeps in. How can you recover? That hit was hard as fuck. Your eyes are watering, your ears are ringing, and you’re coughing out blood. Maybe you’re not as tough as you thought. You’re rattled, scared, and unconfident. Your once proud demeanor has been routed. Still, you managed to gain what little semblance of will power you have and crawl on your knee’s.

The world has forgotten about you, left you in disgrace, and is off to destroy its next victim. You’re struggling just to barely crawl. You see your muscles still work and you’re not completely broken. You have a small spark of fire reignite within you. What can you do different? What can you do to better prepare? What can you do to not make the same mistakes? What can do, what can you, what can you do…

You linger on all fours. You talk to yourself, motivate yourself, and you push yourself. You’re beaten, but not defeated. You feed that little flame. Slowly, it grows brighter and hotter. You regain your confidence, composure, and you’re no longer rattled. That hit wasn’t that bad. You have been toughened by the previous beat downs the world has given. Your recovery time has become shorter and shorter. You’ve handled tough situations before and you’re still here. You’ve never given up on yourself, even in the darkest of times. You figured out what you can do. You’ve eliminated some options and decided what you will do. You know what you will do to be smarter. You know what you will do in order to never take the same hits again. You know what you will do so you will be a tougher competitor for the world. What will you do, what will do, what will you do…

With a mighty push you get up on your feet. There will be no more feeling sorry for yourself, no more negativity, and no more loser thoughts. You’re salty and hardened by your experience. You’re intense and you have a clear focus. You’re implementing the changes that you’ve thought about. You’re doing the work, you’re paying your dues, and you’re growing as a human. You’re becoming better and better, day by day. You’re breaching the threshold that at one point you plateaued at. That flame inside of you has become a wildfire, its radiance and power overwhelming your very being. The you that was downtrodden is long gone and the vigorous and invigorated you presently appears. You are ready. You think back at all the things you’ve done to prepare yourself. All the things you’ve done to create a better you. All the things you’ve done to never make the same mistakes again. All the things you’ve done, all the things you’ve done, all the things you’ve done…

You strut up to the world, ready to take it on once again, and look at it right in the eyes, “Hey mother fucker, remember me? You fucked with the wrong son of a bitch.”

~Raul Felix

Hey world! Fuck you and read this: Warrior-Scholar

Tough Love

Posted on by Standard 5

“Men kick friendship around like a football, but it doesn’t seem to crack. Women treat it like glass and it goes to pieces.”-Anne Morrow Lindbergh

My best friends are assholes. Whenever they see an opening to berate me and talk down to me, they not only strike viciously, but effectively. They are well versed in the guerilla warfare that is shit talk. Innovative, ruthless, and accurate in their ability to destroy my spirit and ego, they stop at nothing to beat me down and bring me back to reality. For this I am blessed.

Anyone can pretend to listen to you and tell you the things you want to hear to make you feel better about your adorable little problems. It’s a temporary patch that heals nothing and just strokes your ego. Your best friends are the ones who will rip into you and tell you the truth and what you need to hear. They won’t sugar coat it, but there will be plenty of whisky to help out.

You could be moping around, feeling sorry for yourself because Betty Sue won’t return your phone calls. You thought she was darn special didn’t you? Your friends don’t understand the heart break you’re going through. She’s a fucking unique snow flake and the prettiest of them all. She may be the love of your life. Damn, are you reading that? You see how pathetic you sound? That’s bitch talk.

If your friends are true friends, they will listen to your little bitchfest, but probably give you three, four minutes tops until they tell you stop being a pussy. That they didn’t know you were on your period and you should probably go to Walmart and get the premium brand of tampons to stop your heavy bleeding. No, in fact, your crimson tide is so heavy that you need to go to Costco and buy in bulk. They thought Betty Sue was a bitch any ways and thus, you shouldn’t be grieving for her.

You’re being a lazy, fat fuck who is apathetic about his future? You lack the self-awareness to recognize the useless piece of shit you’ve become? Don’t worry, your best friends will let you know how truly worthless you are. They’ll let you know that the path you’re on is leading you nowhere and that you’re wasting your life.

Don’t even think you gaining those ten extra pounds will go unnoticed. You think your boys are going to pass up the chance to ridicule you for being a lard ass? It will be such exquisite treat for them to mock you as your once mediocre body spirals downward into something resembling a potato sack with arms.

There are two reason they do this. One: it’s funny and fun to pick you apart and break you down. Two: they care about you. They want you to toughen up and not let a simple woman have so much control over your emotions. They want you to be successful and live up to your potential as a man. They don’t want to see you spinning your wheels forever. They want you to move forward and make something out of yourself.

They’re your best friends because you have a deep connection forged by years upon years of shared experiences and tomfoolery. You’ve grown up together and seen each other at highs and lows. They know what you are and are not capable of. It pisses them off when you’re not living up to your true potential, so they do shame you into, hopefully, doing something with your meager existence.

When you do actually start doing something to better yourself, they’ll be your biggest fans and supporters. If you start taking writing seriously, they’ll read every piece of shit article you write, hoping that you’ll eventually write something readable. If you take your musical talents seriously, they’ll be at your shows alongside your mom and no one else. When you decide to go back to school, they’ll warn you not to major in a worthless degree like they did.

There are a lot of men out there who don’t have close friends. If you’re lucky enough to have a few key men you can depend on no matter what, you’re way above the curve. The tough love they dish out comes with it. You truly need and want men who are honest with you, even brutally so. If not, you may as well be friends with gossipy chicks who will be your best friends to your face and talk shit behind your back.

~Raul Felix

You’re a dumb ass and you need to read more. Educate yourself: Politically Incorrect and Loving It

Note: This post has been featured on Return of Kings

First Hater

Posted on by Standard 3

I was in Toronto, Canada for 5 days and I gave my business card to people I would meet at a bars or randomly and thought were cool. Through this I got my first online hater. Which is quite funny. I’m actually proud of this accomplishment. Some girl I met posted this on her tumblr.

Promo

In case you can’t read it, it says: “I would love to introduce everyone to the most misogynist, woman hating, piece of shit man I had the misfortune of recently meeting.”

I don’t remember how I met her exactly, but judging by her pics, she is quite sexy and I probably wanted to bang her. All hope for that is lost now I guess.

~Raul Felix

Heartbreak

Posted on by Standard 6

We men are strange creatures. We’ll take an ass kicking, break our bones, or even take a bullet without shedding a tear. We’ll just take a salt tablet and drive on. Men don’t cry for that shit. However, give us a beautiful, charming, and witty woman who inspires us, fulfills us, and makes us feel emotionally secure, and then take her away, we’re crying ourselves to sleep every night. Eventually, she’ll get tired of your bullshit and insecurities. She’ll get tired of your vices and lack of maturity. She’ll get tired of you. Then before you know it, she has been pushed to her limits and decides to end the love affair.

I have been lucky enough to have had a few loving and heavily passionate relationships with some very pretty women in my life. Each one, ended with the woman ripping my heart apart. Some were gentler than others, but the end result was the same: A very angry, heart broken Raul Felix full of self-loathing and despair.

Being heartbroken, depending on your perspective, can be a spectacular comedy or tragedy.

First order of business: Drink heavily, indiscriminately, and execute the task with extreme prejudice. This act of self-destruction is highly effect at showing your ex-girlfriend what type of high-quality man she has let go. Through each drink conquered, you have shown her that you are truly a winner and an unrelenting go-getter who is unswayed by insurmountable odds such as the lines that defines socially acceptable, reasonable, or safe amounts of alcohol consumption.

As you sit there, alone in the dark, wallowing in the pile of shit that is your existence, you’ll begin to brood. You’ll start thinking about all the good times. The way she laughed, her wonderful scent, all those times you fucked and how hot she looked with your cum dripping down her face. How conversation with her seemed to effortlessly flow and your cute little inside jokes. The way you would smack her ass randomly. She was the person you told all the little and big things to and the first and last person you spoke to each day. She even sent you nude pics of her so you can masturbate to them when you weren’t spending the night together. Gives you a warm and fuzzy just thinking about it.

Then, anger will rush through your veins as you can’t seem to fathom why its over. You were good to her! You told her you loved her and bought her flowers that one time. Never mind all the times you were extremely selfish, unthoughtful, and just plain mean. Or those times that you pushed the envelope too far with your drunken bullshit. Or those times you flirted with other women shamelessly. Or those times you made her feel insecure and not worth while. Yeah, never mind those parts, you were a good a boyfriend 95% of the time.

“Fuck this cunt,” you think to yourself. That 5% of you isn’t that fucked up is it? You’re not a drug addict or a broke, unemployed loser with no ambition who lives with mama. Sure, you’re a bit of a slacker and procrastinate on shit until the last possible minute. But she isn’t perfect either! You then begin to list of the personal traits of her you don’t like, after calling out two or three, you can’t really think of much more. You’re an idiot, you let such a fine woman hate you because you acted like yourself.

You know what sounds like a great idea even though it’s 3 a.m.? How about you compose long winded e-mail professing your undying love to her. She will be greatly impressed by your mule like stubbornness to talk to her even though she has already blocked you from Facbooking and texting her. After composing a masterpiece of romance and eroticism that is sure to rekindle the fire of her love again, you press send. That line where you told her that she was as special as a retarded, dancing Hyena wearing a clown costume is a soliloquy destined to be placed among great cantos.

You know what isn’t going to give you a sense of nostalgia? If you look at all the pictures you have of her. No, that isn’t a sharp pain you feel in your chest as you notice how pretty her nose is. No, your heart didn’t skip a beat when you realize how perfectly she looked by your side. No, your eyes aren’t watering as you realize that she was right for you. Nope, you didn’t feel any of that shit. Your heart is not bleeding. Feeling feelings is for pussies.

You wake up in your bed the next morning. Your laptop on your chest and shut off because the battery ran out. There are several empty beer cans scattered about and an almost full one next to you on your table that you took one or two sips out of, after which you promptly passed out.

You take a huge beer-shit, shower, and begin to drink water. You replug your laptop and dread to find out what you wrote last night. You check your e-mail, a new message from her. Apparently, as your message history shows, you decided that she didn’t respond to your sugary prose quickly enough and you decided to turn sour and mean. Saying all sorts of things that no lady should ever have to hear and thus reminding her why she left you in the first place. Economists like to say that people always behave in a rational way with the information they have. At that time when you wrote to her and called her a “wretched cunt who destroyed your heart and is probably fucking some other dude right now cause she is a fucking whore.” You probably had some legit source of information that would make that seem like the right call, and not an act of drunken paranoia.

You chat and argue with her for a while. She then tries to plea with you to leave her alone, let her be happy, and that she wants what is best for you and you’re a good man in your own regard, but you’re just not right for her. That she will always love you and never forget you. You being of sober mind set, agree to leave her alone and not talk to her. A few nights later, fueled by booze and bitterness, you decide that if you can rally up the troops of lost love for one last push, you can come out triumphant.

~Raul Felix

Only certain type of women are worthy of my love: The Feminine Aficionado

I’m Sorry, I Thought This Was America!

Posted on by Standard 8

My blog has had the distinguished honor of getting flagged as mature by WordPress. I guess when you write about dolphin fucking and whores with stinky vaginas, it’s to be expected. Basically, what this means is that none of my posts are going to be on the WordPress main page and I’m never going to be eligible to be Freshly Pressed. Which I hear is really good at driving traffic to your blog. I’m not going to have other wayward bloggers find my site by accident, not through WordPress Reader anyways.

Now there are two ways a person can handle this: One is to bitch and moan about how unfair it is. Blame it on stupid fellow bloggers who reported you and call WordPress a bunch of commie faggots who are censoring free speech like some shit out of 1984.

RandyMarshAmerica

Another, slightly more dignified approach, is to take responsibility for the things one says. You have the right to say what you wish, but there are repercussions for it. My writing style is still evolving, but right now, I like to deem it as eloquently vulgar. I mix a lot of offensive language with a couple of hundred dollar words and then trim it down. That means that I turn off a lot of potential readers that would have liked me otherwise, had I toned it down a notch. I believe in my current state, if I tone it down a notch, my writing would lose some of the edge that makes it distinguished and truly mine.

This is a little bit of a set back, but fuck it, it’s just another challenge to over come and get my stupid little Mexican brain thinking of how to promote myself through other avenues. It will force me to seek more writing opportunities on other sites so I can drive traffic here and gain ground with new people reading my material. As of right now, I have 52 followers, a platoon sized element of people willing to read what I have to say. They subscribed because they read something they liked and wanted more. I’m grateful for the opportunity to be able to give it to them.

The only way one can become a good writer is by staying true to themselves and what they are and to what they represent. If you try to please everybody, you please no one. I’m not writing to please everyone, but rather, to please the small niche of people who will think my writing is worth something. So, WordPress, you can keep that little adorable Freshly Pressed trophy, I’ll earn my followers through hard work and tenacity.

~Raul Felix

Read: What It Is To Write

My Business Card

Posted on by Standard 6

I’ve been wanting to get a business card to hand out to the people I meet randomly to encourage them to visit my blog. But I thought I needed some sort of logo and design, so I put it off. The other day while riding around on my motorcycle, a business card idea struck me. A couple of hours later I went on my computer and ordered the following bad boys. What do you think?

Business Card

~Raul Felix

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