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

What It Is To Write

Posted on by Standard 7

Writing is an individual event. One must have the motivation and tenacity to sit down in front of their laptop consistently and face the dreaded blank screen. Hoping the words your fingertips pound out will actually form something comprehensible. And if they form something comprehensible, will it actually be something that someone will want to read? And if it’s something someone will want to read, will what you attempt to convey be what they perceive? These are the questions that a writer asks himself when he sits down to write whatever piece he is working on.

Like any art, one must be willing to dredge through the bitter loneliness. No one sees your struggle to churn out that silly anecdote, philosophical rant, or witty observation. No one cares if it took you thirty minutes or six hours to piece together those 1800 words they read in three minutes. No one will come up to you in the coffee shop and ask you what you’re writing about and eagerly listen.

You must take full responsibility for the effort you put in. No one is going to call you before you go to sleep and ask you how many words you wrote today or how you better get your ass in gear and work on your new post. No one is going to yell in your ear and tell you to write more and write faster. No one, really, is thinking about what you’re doing to hone your craft. They’re too busy with their own lives and worries.

Its up to you. Rare is the parent who wishes their kid to be a writer, as opposed to a doctor or engineer. Rare is the employer, who cares about your ability to write whimsical tales as opposed to having the proper skills for the job. Rare is the friend who is willing to help you through the muck that are rough drafts. Rarely will anybody tell you that writing is what you should do instead of using that energy elsewhere.

Writing is a cruel art. Cruel because it teases your mind when it’s unable to grasp the proper words or idea’s to pour onto a piece. Cruel because once you finally grasps those words for that sentence, the next sentence is placed in front you. One’s mental capacity is constantly being pushed to its outer limits. It’s a disheartening and unnerving craft, because sometimes your best words go unacknowledged. With each step taken forward, the hill inclines a slight bit.

Writing is a loving art. Loving because once your artistic threshold has been pushed, it nourishes your mind and reinvigorates into something slightly more grandeur. Loving because once you finish a piece, you immediately forget the feeling of hopelessness that once consumed you. In its place, accomplishment and self-satisfaction. Loving because the words you write are an expression of your very core as a human being. You created something that, a moment before, didn’t exist. You contributed to your culture, in a very small, but special way.

You have to be willing to take the hits to your ego as a piece you diligently worked on for hours goes unnoticed. You have to adopt the mentality that each piece, however grand or small, is nothing more than a brick placed towards building yourself as writer. Some will gather more attention than others, but even the most impressive structure has countless small bricks as support. Don’t forget that the world operates on a “what have you done for me lately” mentality. You’re only as good as your last piece, for the writer who dwells too long on his past success is a has-been.

Writing is self-absorbed and pretentious. It’s feeling that for whatever farfetched reason, people will actually care what you have to say about any subject whatsoever. It’s feeling that your uniqueness as a special snowflake is so god damn remarkable, that another special snowflake will take time away from their own little special snowflake existence to read what your special snowflake ass has to say. As the old maxim goes: it requires the foolishness to try, and the cockiness to think you can actually succeed.

Writing, in its simplest form, is putting words on paper. Like a skilled wordsmith, you must bend them to your will. Whether they be for good or evil, humor or grief, fact or fiction, they are yours for the taking. The only thing stopping you is whether you’re willing to dig deep enough to harness their power.

~Raul Felix

Some more writings about writing, read: One Year & Driving On

My First Overnighter

Posted on by Standard 11

I awaken on the cold, wet concrete floor of a jail cell. My head is pounding, my body is completely dehydrated, and I’m shivering. The bright lights of the cell are too much for me to handle and I squint like a gook. “What the fuck?” I mutter to myself as I try to comprehend my current whereabouts. I take a quick sniff at myself, I reek of booze and failure. I stand up and walk around my jail cell and notice how the whole floor is covered with water. Nothing clicks in my head. I hear the noise of the jail cell unlocking and a jailer comes in. She tells me to put my hands in my pockets and I follow her orders.

“You had quite a night,” she deadpans.

“What did I do?” I inquired.

“You made quite a mess of things. I would almost feel sorry for you, except you flooded your jail cell.”

My mind begins to connect the dots. As I am being lead to finger printing, images from the night fill my head.

I was placed in the jail cell and followed the orders given to me by the jailers. As they shut the door, I stood there attempting to analyze the situation. Hatred intensely filled my very core. I was in jail and I was going to make it known that I did not approve of this. Plan A, verbal protest. I’ll use my finely honed diplomatic skills to get my freedom back. “This is America! Call my aunt you mother fuckers! What crime did I commit? I want my human rights!” my booming voice echoed through the hallways. My tantrum was being ignored and I acknowledge that it would not yield any results.

Plan B, escape. Like a retarded monkey in a zoo, I begin to look around the jail for something to use to escape. There was nothing. Fuck it. I run to the walls and try to climb them. Surprisingly, it was unsuccessful. I then sprint at the door in an attempt to kick it down. I’m lucky I didn’t break my leg. I give up this valiant, but misguided effort. I then notice the toilet in the cell. Inspiration beckons.

Plan C, political protest. My mindset shifted. I was not a criminal, in fact, I was a political prisoner taken in by the fascist, Gestapo-esque state of we lived in. Civil disobedience was the answer to my woes. I walk over to the high pressure toilet, grab a roll of toilet paper, and shoved it down the drain. I flush the first time, the toilet fills up to the rim. I smile deviously. I flush once again, the toilet begins to overflow. I’m gitty and begin laughing like an evil genius who’s diabolical plan is going perfectly. I flush as fast I can. The water begins to accumulate on the floor. I then see a lot of it is going down the drain in middle of cell. No problem, I take off my shirt and clog that drain also. Water continues to flow out of the toilet, underneath the cell door, and into the hallway of the jail. I feel powerful as I’m sticking it to the man and letting him know you can’t detain Raul Felix without there being repercussions. I continue flushing for about 15 minutes.

The toilet stops flushing. The fascists shut off the water to my cell. Fucking high-knee bastards. They squashed my flooding ambitions, but the destruction had been done. I look outside my jail cell and see the jailers walking around in the water. Also, two women from the females prison begin to mop up my mess. I yell obscenities that I don’t recall at them. They ignore me.

Up in the corner of the ceiling was a camera protected by shatter proof glass. I decide I want to break it. I pick up my drenched shirt and begin throwing it at the camera. Direct hits have no effect in destroying the glass. On my third throw, my shirt wraps itself around the camera and stays there. I stand there, stunned and with a fractured morale. My protest against the man is over and I decide to go to sleep.

The jailer finishes taking my finger prints and then lines me up for my mug shot. Even though, I was able to remember what I did the previous night in my cell, I have no idea how I ended up there to begin with. I get my wallet and sandals back, sign some release forms, and am made aware of my court date. My charges: Drunk and Disorderly Conduct.

I enjoy the sweet taste of liberation as I leave the Huntington Beach Police Station. I then realize that I am a long ways from my cousins place. I begin to walk. I have no shirt or cell phone as I walk myself up Main Street towards Beach Boulevard. I giggle to myself at the insanity of it all. An old, Greek man whose out on his morning walk begins to walk next to me and notices how disheveled I appear. “Rough night?” he says in a friendly manner.

“Yes, sir, I have no idea how I ended up in jail. Trying to figure it out.” He laughs out loud and begins to tell me stories of his youthful, drunken shenanigans and some of the women he fucked in his glory days. I’m entertained by him and enjoy his company. We then have to part ways as he made a turn to his home. We shook hands and he wished me the best of luck.

I finish my three mile trek of shame to my cousins house. I knock on the door and he opens up. “What the hell happened to you?” he asks.

“I got arrested and spent the night in jail,” I say with a shit eating grin.

“God damn it. I knew it was either that or you fucked some chick when you didn’t come home last night.”

For the next few days, I couldn’t figure out what I did to end up in jail. Nothing came to mind at all and it was a total conundrum for my Neanderthal mind. That was until I picked up my police report which rattled my mind enough to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

I had pre-partied at my cousins apartment while hanging with him and his wife. I was nine beers deep and had the urge to go out. There was a bar called Tumble Weeds at the strip mall next to his apartments. I walked over there on a solo mission for pussy and good times. I used my alcohol amplified social skills to quickly make new friends to drink with. Some tattooed chick was eyeing me and I thought she was very pretty. We flirted heavily and then began to hook up. I alternated between kissing her, drinking heavily, and socializing with her friends. They all liked me. Last call was announced and I left with the tattooed chicks number written on a piece of paper. Though victorious with the tattooed chick, I still wanted to get more shit housed. As I walked back to my cousins apartment, I noticed that there was an apartment on the third story with its door open and the distinctive sound of people having a good time. I walk up the stairs and decide to invite myself to the party.

I'm even drunk enough to do the shameful duck face.

I’m even drunk enough to do the shameful duck face.

“Hey guys, I’m Raul and I’m one of your neighbors. I was wondering if I can party you guys?” I lie. They warmly invite me to join them and offer me a shot of whiskey. After this point, my mind goes blank. I am unable to remember what occurred in that apartment that caused me to have an argument with the people who lived there. Though, taking an educated guess based on personal history would suggest that my overly cocky, smart ass Raul Felix shit bomb personality took firm hold. With this, all semblance of human decency and social grace disappears from my being and I transform into an insufferable baboon. I’m sure I got into a fight.

My next clear memory, I am running around the apartment complex’s parking lot, knocking on windows, running on the hoods of cars, and yelling ungentlemanly things. Security is called and attempts to calm me down. I promptly tell the rent a cop to “Go fuck yourself.” I continue on my drunk rampage unchallenged. My drunken dominance was about to be crushed. I see the red and blue lights behind me. The cops have been called. I contemplate running, but look down and realize I have sandals. In quite possibly the most rational decision a drunk person could make, I put my hands up.

The police officer bombards me with questions my drunk mind is barely able to make sense of. I fall over. The police officer picks me up. “How much have you had to drink?” he asks.

“I refuse to disclose that,” I respond in a professional manner. I fall over again.

The police officer decides I’m too drunk and places me under arrest. He puts my hands behind my back, stomps my foot, and hand cuffs me. I scream out in pain as his boot crushes my ill protected foot. I am then placed in the back of the police car. On my way to jail, I sit there, wondering what crime I committed in order to be taken in by the secret police.

POST SCRIPT: At some point during the whole fiasco, I lost the tattooed chicks number, something that truly pissed me off because I really liked her. I also hired a lawyer and had my case dismissed, but it did cost me a pretty penny.

~Raul Felix

More stories you say? You’re lucky I have another to spare: The Pick-Up Follies: Sleazy-E’s Revenge

The UK Border Agency Debacle

Posted on by Standard 14

“I’m from fucking Southern California, why the fuck would I want to illegally immigrate to your shitty, cold country?” I said to the United Kingdom Border Agent as she interrogated me in a small room. I was beginning to lose my composure and my temper. My body was shaking as my veins filled with rage. My fists were clenched and I was grinding my teeth in my best effort not to say anything else stupid. I have never ever in my life been so upset at any bureaucrat that I actually had to use every ounce of willpower to keep myself from breaking their face and ending up in jail.

Throughout the month of January 2013, I was randomly traveling around Western Europe and doing the typical backpacker thing. After exploring the wonders of Amsterdam, I decided my next stop would be London, England. I got on the airplane and arrived at London Gatwick Airport and was informed I was supposed to fill out some customs paperwork. Everything was pretty standard and I filled out my occupation: government. I shuffled through and took my place in line to await the process of getting my visa. I was next, and that’s where I met my soon to be nemesis, “McCunterson.” She was a gorilla looking, big fat black woman with a mix of a Jamaican and British accent.

"Oh what pleasure."

“Oh what a pleasure.”

Raul: “Hello.”

McCunterson: “What is the purpose of your visit?”

Raul: “Just traveling around Europe randomly.”

McCunterson: “Why?”

Raul: “… because I’m on vacation.”

McCunterson: “Don’t give me attitude sir, I’m just doing my job.”

Raul: “… alright.”

McCunterson: “How long have you worked for the US Government?”

Raul: “A year and half. Actually, I just finished working with them a couple of weeks ago. I just put that cause it was my last job.”

McCunterson: “So, you’re unemployed?”

Raul: “I guess I am.”

McCunterson: “Then why did you write you were employed? You know that is lying on a legal document right?”

Raul: “I apologize.”

McCunterson: “How much luggage do you have with you?”

Raul: “Just my backpack.”

McCunterson: “That little thing?”

Raul: “Yes, I travel light.”

McCunterson: “Do you have a return flight?”

Raul: “No. I haven’t bought the ticket yet. I’m not sure how long I am going to stay. I think maybe a week or two.”

McCunterson: “Why don’t you have a return flight?”

Raul: “Because I’m not sure of how long I am going to stay, like I said.”

McCunterson: “Don’t get smart, sir. How much money do you have on you and how much do you have access to?”

Raul: “I have about 500 euro on me and I have access to $X,XXX.”

McCunterson: “You really expect me to believe you have access to $X,XXX?”

Raul: “… yes.”

McCunterson: “I’m going to need you step over there, sir.”

McCunterson pointed me to little boxed area where I would sit while other passengers were screened. I sat there wondering what the hell was going on and what I’ve done wrong. I was a bit annoyed, but confident whatever the issue was would be resolved quickly, since you know, I am god damn American Citizen. I would wait for 15 minutes and McCunterson would come by and with a tone that makes me understand why husbands beat their wives, asked me mores questions that I already told her the answer to. She would then leave and do the same thing 15 minutes later. I waited for an hour.

Another Border Agent came by and told me follow him. He lead me to a back room and I emptied out all of my stuff. He looked through everything in my backpack and jacket, closely inspecting every pocket. He then found a pamphlet of different types of marijuana that I got from Amsterdam.

Border Agent: “Why do you have this?”

Raul: “I don’t know, I thought it was cool.”

Border Agent: “You have marijuana on you?”

Raul: “No.”

Border Agent: “Are you sure! I’m going to search all of you!”

Raul: “I don’t.”

Border Agent: “Alright, turn around and put your hands out.”

He started to search the rest of my person and pockets, luckily, no anal probing. After he finished searching me and my stuff, he left. Then came in a security guard. He informed me that I am being detained and he didn’t know the details of my case. He then asked if I would like a sandwich and something to drink while I waited in the holding area. I began to get frustrated. I am being detained now, for no fucking reason.

"Fuck you and your freedom, America!" -Union Jack

“Fuck you and your freedom, America!” -Union Jack

I went to the holding area and waited for an hour. McCunterson waddled in and took me to an interrogation room. I was heavily annoyed, but was able to contain my frustration.

McCunterson: “What did you do for the government?”

Raul: “I worked in Israel.”

She then began to ask more specific questions about what I did in Israel and I gave her some of the details I was at liberty to speak about.

McCunterson: “You really expect me to believe that’s what you did for the US government?”

Raul: “um… yes. That was my job.”

McCunterson: “Oh really? Do you have any proof?” She gave me a very mocking look.

Raul: “Not on me, on my computer.”

McCunterson: “I’m not interested in seeing what’s on your computer.”

Raul: “Who the fuck just carriers that form of information on them!” My voice was raising in frustration.

McCunterson: “Watch your mouth, sir.”

I hated her. The way she spoke in that smug ass british accent with that half-frown that only fat, black women seem to have. Stupid cunt believed that just because she said “sir” it didn’t change the fact that the way she asked and said things was condescending.

Raul: “Fine.” I fantasized about punching her in the face.

Her onslaught of questions about the details of my trip and my life continued. She asked questions about where I was from, where I was born, my past employments, criminal record, my plans for London, who I knew there, amongst other things. I told her about one person I knew there and who could confirm my plans and my story. I gave McCunterson her number.

I paced back and forward in the holding area, barely being able to resist the urge to throw every piece of furniture in the room against the wall. I was being held because this incompetent cow had never seen a backpacker randomly travel around Europe before.

McCunterson finally came back two hours later and called me into the interrogation room.

McCunterson: “Mr. Raul Felix, I have decided to deny you access to the United Kingdom because I don’t believe the reasons you have stated for coming here are true since you lied about being currently employed by the US Government. I believe you are trying to stay in the United Kingdom illegally…”

SassyBlackWoman

Raul: “What the fuck! I’m from fucking Southern California, why the fuck would I want to illegally immigrate to your shitty, cold country? Are you fucking kidding me?”

McCunterson: “Let me finish, sir.”

Raul: “Fuck you!” I stormed out of the interrogation room and walked out to the holding area where the security guards where.

Security Guard: “Hey! Calm down.”

Raul: “I’m fucking calm. Just let me fucking cool down.” I was trying to recompose myself and bite my tongue. I went back into the interrogation room. McCunterson continues on with her stupid, inept reasoning for not letting me into the UK and informed me that I would be deported to Amsterdam the next morning.

I was sent back to the holding area and let out big yell in frustration. I paced back and forward again, calling McCunterson every form of racial and sexiest slur I could think of to myself. I had completely lost my temper. The only thing keeping me from lashing out was the threat of going to jail for assaulting a government official.

I call my local friend on the pay phone and it takes her a while to calm me down. She informed me that McCunterson had called her up and that she asked a bunch of questions about me. The answers that I gave her matched the answers my friend gave her. I was curious to see why McCunterson still denied me entry. I asked the security guards if they could have her come by. She came by 30 minutes later.

Raul: “Ms. McCunterson, I just spoke to my friend and she said you called her. The answers she gave you matched with what I gave you. I don’t understand why I am being denied entrance.”

McCunterson: “Because I don’t believe you intend on leaving the UK. I made my decision and you’re not coming in.”

Raul: “But..”

McCunterson: “I made my decision.”

She then walked away. I stood there shocked. I couldn’t believe it. I would not see her again. I regret not having called her “retarded, incompetent, fat black cunt.”

Later, I was picked up by some other security guards to be taken to a detention facility. En route there, I expressed my hatred of the UK, its douchebag border agency, and that I hoped the whole place burned down to the ground. The security guard was actually a merry ol’ fella and expressed sympathy toward me and asked me not to judge the whole UK because of “some dumb customs asshole.” We then proceeded to have a pleasant conversation and he lightened up my mood. That was until, I got to the detention facility and was shuffled into my jail cell where I would spend the night. I was unable to quickly fall asleep. The incidents of the day kept on playing in my head. I would randomly punch my mattress in anger.

I was awoken by the sound the cell door opening. It was time for me to get deported. The same merry ol’ security guard was to escort me onto the airplane. I climbed the stairs and I was the first passenger on, with my passport and documentations given to the pilot. I sat there, dead pan, not really feeling anything anymore. Just amazed at the stupidity of the English. I really wished we didn’t save their ungrateful asses in World War 2.

FBStatus

It took me a while to be able to think about the whole situation without wanting to get into a fight. While my bitterness towards the UK has subsided and I’ll probably make another attempt to visit sometime in the future, I still harbor a deep hatred toward McCunterson. I wish I could wish misery on her, but she’s a government bureaucrat, misery and incompetence is her life.

~Raul Felix

Read another European adventure: Pussy Cats and the Appreciation of Modern Technology

Every Race is Worthless

Posted on by Standard 12

“…You are the lowest form of life on Earth. You are not even human fucking beings. You are nothing but unorganized grabastic pieces of amphibian shit! Because I am hard, you will not like me. But the more you hate me, the more you will learn. I am hard but I am fair. There is no racial bigotry here. I do not look down on niggers, kikes, wops or greasers. Here you are all equally worthless…” -Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, Full Metal Jacket.

Hartman

We are all born equally worthless. It doesn’t matter if you’re born white, hispanic, black, asian, arab, jew, or whatever other racial groups there are. We are all equally worthless to the world. Your race does not entitle you to shit. You’re not superior nor are you the lesser of any human being just because of the color of your skin and the features of your ethnicity. What truly matters is the content of your character and how you define yourself. Not simply conforming to how society thinks you should be like.

Real racial bigotry has gone to the wayside in most of the American populace. Being a legitimate racist comes at the high cost of ostracizing yourself from society and only socializing with closed minded bigots. Though, trace remains still linger in the psyche of the general public, both in the former persecutor and the formerly persecuted. Because of past racial turmoil, policies of political correctness and affirmative action have taken effect. These policies have neutered politicians, employers, and police departments ability to do their jobs effectively. Affirmative action has created resentment among employee’s about their minority co-workers because they’re not sure if they were indeed the best candidate or were hired because the employer needed to meet a demographic quota.

It also spawns the idea that minorities, specifically hispanics and blacks can’t make it on their own without the assistance of the state. Because we’re supposedly so beaten down by the system that we’re not able to motivate ourselves to accomplish and stand out above our peers without those added little incentives employers get for hiring a “culturally diverse” work force. That is enraging and real racism at its core. When I apply for a job and am being considered for employment, I don’t want the deciding factor to be that they need to fill the spic quota. Rather, I want it to be because the hiring manager saw a great amount of potential in me and my past experiences show that I am capable of handling the tasks that will be assigned to me.

Even though I haven't lost touch with my roots.

Even though I haven’t lost touch with my roots.

We have also forged an apologetic culture in the United States where anything one may say that would be considered racially insensitive can cost them their social status and possibly their career. We’ve gone from being one of the most racist countries on the planet to being one of the most über politically correct one. A racist joke told to a co-worker and overheard by the wrong person can label you a bigot or at the very least makes you take an equal opportunity class. Though it makes sense why those policies are in place in order to keep the integrity of the work force, the real question is: Who the fuck still feels real racism to such a degree that a simple joke will crush their precious little feelings?

Hasn’t my generation, Generation-Y, grown up in such a racially diverse environment that we honestly don’t give a fuck about a persons race? You know what we do care about? Whether that person is actually cool or a total tool. We care if they’re actually a good friend who is loyal and reliable, not if their ancestors immigrated from the same shitty third world country as ours. We care about the experiences we shared together, not if our ancestors were rivals. We care about the jokes we can tell at one another’s expense and laugh uncontrollable together. We’re friends because we share the same activities, hobbies, and taste in entertainment, not because it’s nice to have a friend of different race to make one seem cultured.

"See! We're sitting in a circle of different races! We are so open minded and cultured!"

“See! We’re laying in a circle full of people of different races! We are so open minded and cultured!”

Race is irrelevant in modern friendships. Racist jokes at the expense of whites, hispanics, blacks, asians, arabs, and jews are common among any group of friends of whatever mix of racial demographics. Laughing together at the quirks of each others cultures and race is more conducive to healing the wounds of hundreds of years of racial tension, hatred, and violence than all the vacant, politically correct talk and worthless social policies in the world.

We’re at the threshold of an age that Martin Luther King Jr. spoke about in his timeless speech:

“I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

You are all equally worthless, as Gunny Hartman said to his recruits, as they were all broken down and later rebuilt as Marines. So, all of us human beings are all equally worthless at the beginning of our lives, no matter what ethnicity we enter this world as. That is until we grow, learn, develop, and work towards where ever our ambitions (or lack of) take us. That in turn creates our character; what we truly deserve to be judged by. Once judged by our character, we are all no longer equally worthless.

~Raul Felix

Don’t Miss: Inch by Inch.

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

One Year & Driving On

Posted on by Standard 12

“Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.”-Gloria Steinem

One year ago, I started this little blog in an effort to pressure myself to get my writing out there for the dear and avid reader, such as yourself, to enjoy. It was a really tough step for me because I wasn’t that confident about my writing up to that point. But, it has been more rewarding than I thought it would be. Even though I harbor no delusions of grandeur and I know I am small fry and I don’t have a huge following. It feels great and humbling to know that people take time out of their day to read the kind of stuff I come up with. It’s beyond the grasp of my writing ability to describe how it feels when a friend, acquaintance, or a stranger tells me they’ve read one of my entries and found it hilarious or insightful.

One of the most rewarding parts of it has been that I surprise people with my ability to write. I’m not trying suck my own cock here, but it brings a shit-eating grin to my face when those who knew me at some point in my colorful life say they can’t believe my dumb ass wrote that or that I’m a good writer. I’m proud when I get that response, because it means I am evolving not only as a writer, but as a human being. My skills were not always up to par, as one of my best friends, Sleazy-E once put it, “Felix, I want say I’m actually impressed. Your blog is good. In several years you went from obvious reaching for vocabulary words to an efficient and effective use of the English language.”

I’m not sure what I expected people’s responses to be. But I believe I am lucky because I have received nothing but support from my friends, family, and acquaintances that I’m pursuing this avenue for myself. No one has berated me and told me that I have no hopes of becoming a writer. Though, that also has to do with the fact that I’m doing other positive things with my life and I have no aspirations to be a stereo typical starving artist.

There is a big cliche out there that there are writers who don’t write and just want to call themselves writers in hopes of sounding artsy and getting that hipster pussy. That’s not what I am about. I feel that it’s a title that needs to be earned with constantly pouring yourself into the craft and having the balls to let the world see the dark parts of your mind and self. I have just barely grown comfortable with calling myself a writer and not just an aspiring writer. Some may take that title lightly, but I don’t, because I believe this is what I was born to do and I give it the respect it deserves.

It’s such a unique and under-appreciated skill set to come up with writing that people actually want to read. I try to be as funny, witty, and insightful as I can. Sometimes I hit the mark, other times I fail. But with each post, I’m trying to push what I am capable of as a writer. So far, it has been a mixtures of some of my life stories, my philosophies, and quite a bit of machismo and misogyny. Some entries I try to write in a fictional way to make the point more clear and others I make my best effort to be as accurate to the true events as possible.

While I am proud of every single one of my entries, some stand out more than others. The Feminine Aficionado was a milestone, where for the first time I let out my bold thoughts and feelings on how I view each woman I see in public. I’d Pee in Her Butt put to light how men truly feel about women they only keep around to fuck and because of its title, has been one of the most memorable and most read. Three Rock Solid Ways to Become a More Marketable Bum was not as successful in attracting views as I thought it should have been, but I believe without a doubt is my best written piece to date. Four Things You Didn’t Think of Before Joining the Army was my first success in giving out real world advice in a funny and witty manner. Shy Girl holds a special place in my heart because it’s inspired by those many lonely nights I spent in the barracks as a 19 and 20 year old Private in the Army looking for girls on myspace to meet up with and constantly getting ignored and rejected.

Writing has given me an outlet to express myself. I don’t know how I went so long without fully embracing it. Because as of now, I can’t imagine living a fulfilling life without it. I made it through my first year and didn’t quit, I think that puts me in the top 20% of bloggers/writers just in itself. Now, its time to take bolder, more aggressive steps to get myself up to the 10%. Thank you for supporting me in my first year. I will continue to push myself to deliver the quality, bull shit free content you have come to expect from me and hopefully, give you a few laughs along the way.

~Raul Felix

Where it began: It Begins.

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