The Second Rendition of the Addition to the First Edition
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The Second Rendition of the Addition to the First Edition March 2021 Conception Horoscope Many astrologists believe that personality is determined by date, time, and location of birth. The truth: it is established nine months before that. That’s right, personality is not based on birthdays or moon alignments, it is solely influenced by method of conception… Selfish: If you are selfish, you were not conceived of a mutual orgasm. Your mother was likely impregnated during an early morning quickie before work that left your mom less than satisfied and more than unhappy. Lazy: Artificial insemination. You were created in a test tube. You did not win the swimming race with odds of 60 million to one, you got here with help. Chances are you did not get accepted to Duke through merit either; you are a legacy with connections to the admissions office… and your last name is Duke. Persistent: Your father jerked off while on the toilet in a lockable, unisex handicap bathroom at the airport. A little of his finish got on the toilet seat. An hour later, your mother plopped down on that very same shitter. Refusing to accept your fate of being flushed, you leaped off the seat and landed in your birthplace. Scorpio: You were conceived on Valentine’s day. For this special night your father wanted the back door, but your mother only granted him access to her screened-in porch (sex through transvaginal mesh). Narcissistic: Immaculate conception. God impregnated your mother. Get over it, no one cares. Quit acting like hot shit. You’re no more important than the rest of us.
Cruzcation Winded Chimes in a Stale City:
I was unable to hack into Hillary’s emails, so The Best Novel You’ve Never Heard Of
I figured the next best thing is invading In July of 1977, I rang an established New York City
Senator Ted Cruz’s computer to better novel publisher and asked him what no one should ask a
understand why he traveled to Cancun. His publisher. What do the people desire? Finishing his last
search history paints a picture that leaves sip of scotch (one could presume by the involuntary
little to the imagination… cough that followed his setting of a glass down with a
thud) Darren Henry Alexander told me: avant-garde,
nouveau riche, faux pas, cul-de-sac. Having been
handed a virtual carte blanche, I took to writing the
words you see printed below. The complete manuscript
remains bloodied, obscured beyond comprehension, in
the left pocket of a belted wool coat that I vow to never
don and resolve to never discard.
–––––––––––––––––––––––
There, yachting carelessly as if our troubles lay
cauterized at our feet, ringtones jealously pardon
themselves, interrupting the squirches of the black-
winged stilts heard from the Sicilian coast. Avian
flappings give way to more mammalian rustling which
hence yielded precious time to amphibian croaks.
“More Grigio?” whispered my lover Patriché.
I itched my sack and waddled her way. If it wasn’t for
the spicy tuna, I’d have spent the last hour with her on
the aft deck rather than dispensing my meal out of my
body’s stern on the boat’s bow.
–––––––––––––––––––––––
If the publisher had seen these words, perhaps he would
have demanded more. But, I don’t intend to ask his
decaying carcass buried contemptuously 17 inches
below the foundation of a Burlington, Vermont
Denny’s.
“If you were on a desert island and could only bring 3 things, what would you bring?” Stephen Hawking: “I would bring the concept of space, the concept of time, and my wheelchair-toilet. Without these three theoretical constructs, reality ceases to exist.” Donald Trump: “Three more islands. Quadrupole real estate, baby.” Elon Musk: “I really don’t need much. Raw materials, a Prufrock Boring Machine, and a crew of 150. I’ll tunnel my way out of there in no time.” Joe Biden: “I’d bring my wife, my sister, a bible, and my son Beau.” A Man Who Really Loves PB&J’s: “Yeah, I’d probably bring peanut butter, jelly, and bread. Unless PB&J’s count as one item, in which case I’d also bring my ex-wife Sharlene and a nail gun.” Cristopher Nolan: “I would bring a typewriter, a thesaurus… and a mustache. You see, by requesting a mustache, it guarantees I receive more than three individual items. A mustache requires maintenance. They’d have to give me both a razor and shaving cream. That’s four items total. I came up with this genius loophole and you did not. I think I’m better than you.” Kermit the Frog: (silence) Kermit the Frog Operated by a Puppeteer: “Hiya folks. I would bring my trusty ole’ banjo, some sweet Lipton iced tea, and my puppeteer/proctologist Jim Henson.” Kermit the Frog Operated by a Puppeteer on Crack: “I’d bring Miss Piggy’s Porky Pussy. Send my tadpoles her way if you know what I’m sayin’… Give her a frog in her throat… Oh and a pack of Marlboro Greens.” A Desert Island: “Stop calling me deserted, I find that term incredibly offensive. I have a lot to offer, not to mention like 8 million people live on me. Even though my residents are all materialistic assholes, I still deserve the respect of being called Long Island.”
The Cuddle Sutra
Welcome to Volume I of the Cuddle Sutra. It is essentially the Kama Sutra if the league of Librarians Against
Teen Sex penned it instead of a bunch of absolute horndogs. Please enjoy… but not too much, creep.
DISCLAIMER: Our publisher did not give me the rights to use photos for this section since "society wasn't,
and will never be, ready to see me playing both parts of these positions," so you imbeciles are going to have to
use your imagination for once in your life. Also, sorry for the bad mood, I've been going through a rough patch
lately, my whole life actually.
1. The Deadlift
Who said cuddling had to be done sitting/lying down? Now, you and your partner can embrace standing
up via the position that your cousin Brad has come to know and love: The Deadlift. Be sure to switch
with your partner on being the lifter and the bar itself. And, for the love of all things holy, make sure
you have a spotter.
2. The Zoom Breakout Room
This one is a modern-day twist on a modern-day regularity. Picture this: you and your partner's pictures
are one on top of another on a zoom screen, except this time it’s real life. This can be done lying down,
standing up, sitting down or floating in water! Talk about the flexibility of modern technology, am I
right?
3.The Wrench and Bolt
You ever tighten a bolt with a wrench to build something for your parents, grandparents and/or
neighbor? Did you say no, because you're a privileged member of society that has never worked a day
in your life? Well, hop on the ol' Google machine and look up a picture. But now imagine that you or
your partner's neck is the bolt and the opposing player (not sure if that’s the right term for this but I am
going with it) in this situation's legs are the wrench wrapping around said neck. Play nice with this one,
it can be deadly. If it does turn deadly, I am not responsible as I am not a licensed financial advisor.
4.The High Jump
Do not knock this one till you try it (also, that saying doesn’t make sense. I almost exclusively knock
on doors and strangers' windows at night. In my mind, that is the only real definition of knock.) This
one must be done on a lounge chair at the pool or a hammock in central park. Now imagine a guy (OR
GIRL YOU SEXIST PIECES OF SHIT) is high jumping over a bar in the Olympics. And he/she does
that weird thing where she/he makes their body into the shape of a sickle cell over the bar. Now go do
that with your partner where one of you is the person and the other is the bar. Key trick here: no
touching allowed or you will lose points for your home country, and depending where that is, serious
repercussions may be enforced.My Ideal Funeral
Thinking about your own funeral is something that’s really hard to do. Honestly, it has been a really
interesting thought exercise, and I’ve learned a lot about myself. I wanted to take the time to just put my ideal
funeral on record, in hopes that the unwashed masses know exactly what to do when I kick the bucket.
The first bridge to cross is who to invite. I DON’T WANT UNCLE BRIAN THERE. Literally, fuck
that guy. Who does he think he is? First of all, he drives a 2001 Pontiac Grand Prix with purple velvet seats. I
am genuinely afraid to walk past that car on a sidewalk, let alone be dropped off at soccer practice in it.
Moreover, his horn plays the screech that Marvin Gaye does during “Let’s Get it On.” If that doesn’t scream
weirdo then you should probably move out of Nana Meryl’s garage, especially considering you don’t even
shovel the snow for her and she was hospitalized trying to do it herself. Brian, I honestly don’t even know how
we are related.
I was also thinking maybe a choir, some good food, and a nice sermon given by a rabbi at my temple.
BUT NOT RABBI BRIAN.
Would I Let This Celebrity Defend My Honor in a Duel?
Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson: I get he was a bodybuilder and wrestler but he is old, too big, and probably not
agile enough to dodge the second ninja star... No
Owen Wilson: He has always been in great shape, known to take MMA classes, probably could talk the guy into
killing himself, and was great in Cars 2... Yes
Ronda Rousey: She has everything you are looking for in a fighter. From speed to power to woman, things
would be looking nice at first. However, we all saw her choice of man in Entourage and he was very small.
Definitely a beta... No thank you
LeBron James: At 6’ 9’’, 250lbs, LeBron is built like a Greek god. That being said, he let his teammate have an
affair with his mom, has weak joints, and has been putting on too much weight from Taco Tuesday’s... No, I’ll
pass
Emily Mortimer: The peak of human athletic performance. Emily is quick, strategic, and calculated. If that isn’t
enough, get this. She did all her own stunts in Cars 2... Yeah, I’ll be honored
Rambo: Not Sylvester Stalone. I’m talking about Rambo. Rambo probably has the best combat skills I have ever
seen. He is losing his mind and ability to speak progressively throughout the movie series though... Nope
Larry The Cable Guy: MATERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRSoccer Shenanigans
It was a Saturday morning on the soccer fields of Brooksdale
Elementary School, and there was a championship game brewing. Even
though the competitors of the clash were kindergarteners, tensions ran
deep and the stakes were high. The Brooksdale Beavers were hosting
their cross-town rivals the Pickville Predators. The parents were already
getting rowdy on the sidelines; some of the parents were drunk, some
were not, but none were sober.
“Okay kiddos, this is it– the last game of the season,” Coach Josh
said to the Beavers. Adorned in their red jerseys, these youngsters were
ready to pick a fight. The players huddled together as their 5-year-old captain Todd led the breakdown:
“1...2...3...GO TEAM!” they screamed in unison. As they began to take the field, the Predators’ huddle broke as
well. Cries of “NO SURVIVORS!” carried over the field.
Todd approached the referee alongside Billy, captain of the Predators. To their surprise, the ref took a step
back for each forward movement of the boys. “Sorry fellas, a judge told me I have to stay 100 feet away from you
young adults,” the mysterious man said with a chuckle. As he began to ramble about the injustice of his membership
to the local registry, Billy leaned over to whisper to Todd: “Hey dick-twitch.” Todd kept his eyes forward and his
demeanor solid. He wouldn’t let some Pickville poser intimidate him before the game. “Didn’t you hear me, fuck
nugget?” asked Todd’s arrogant adversary. “If you’re a beaver, why don’t you use those buck teeth to munch on my
wood? Hahaha!” Todd couldn’t hold back anymore. He gripped the blue jersey of the Predator captain and pulled
Billy close to his face. “You picked the wrong day to mess with me, pal. I just got out of doing a dime in
timeout...10 minutes for sharpening my colored pencil in the middle of class. When my idiot teacher got all pissy
about it, I shanked her bitch ass and dumped her in the town incinerator. She was wearing blue that day, so I can
only assume she was a Pickville pussy like YOU. I’ll do it again if I see any of you Predator simpletons in our
territory.”
Billy wasted no time on his retort: “Oh you think you’re hard, tough guy? You’re all talk…what’s your body
count??” Todd was confused by the question. “We’re both 5 years old, obviously I’ve never had sex.” Billy threw
his head back with laughter. “I’m not talking about boning, shit stain. I’m askin’ you...how many mothafuckas have
you DROPPED?” Todd became enraged: “I’ve ended more lives than you can even dream of, kid. If you don’t get
outta my face right now I’m gonna give your grandma a noogie with a hot iron!” Billy took a step back, stunned. A
single tear rolled down his face, for a second perfectly aligning with his teardrop tattoo. Before he could react, the
Predators’ coach came and held him back. “C’mon Billy, let’s settle this on the field the only way we know how.”
Todd noticed something sinister in the coach’s voice.The game started with a whistle as the referee did his best to stand well clear of the players. Barely a minute
had passed before two boys had started shoving and exchanging choice words. One Brooksdale father pulled his
Beer Helmet straw out of his mouth for just long enough to demand a foul. “Are you kidding me ref?? That Predator
scum is shoving my kid around!” The referee replied, “Sorry sir, it’s kinda hard to see the game from so far away!”
He pointed to his on-site parole officer and winked. “I don’t give a rat’s ass, you’re getting paid to officiate the
championship,” belted back the father. “Oh no, I’m not getting paid for this gig. I pay to be here,” he beamed as his
shoulders shook from the chills.
On the field, the initial conflict began to simmer down. The referee, from the opposite side of the field, called
for a free kick from the red team. As the Beaver player ran to kick the ball, the whole crowd heard a crunch as he
fell to the ground. The ball hadn’t moved an inch. “Hey, someone replaced the soccer ball with a bowling ball and
painted it black and white!” a drunk Brooksdale mother exclaimed. Most of the Beaver parents turned to their left,
seeing the Predators’ coach holding two paint brushes. “Hey it wasn’t me, anyone could’ve stolen a 6-pound ball
from the local Awesome Alley’s Bowling Emporium and disguised it as a soccer ball, causing an opponent to break
his foot…” After half a second of silence, the Brooksdale parents rushed the Pickville bench and began to throw
hands. The players on the field were even more ruthless than the parents. The Beavers’ goalkeeper flashed a
terrifying smile to his opponents, revealing that he’d sharpened all of his teeth like a shark. A benchwarmer for the
Predators sprinted to his nearest opponent, removed his cleat from his foot, put it onto his hand like a glove, and
bitch-slapped the Beaver spikes first. An all-out brawl had commenced between the red and blue pinnies, a tale as
old as Compton.
In the midst of the violence, Todd’s two-year-old brother Lucas slipped free from his stroller long enough to
spill some baby powder into his hands. He proceeded to throw it into the air, sort of like Lebron, as this was his
favorite thing to do. To everybody’s chagrin, Billy had swapped Lucas’s talcum powder with anthrax, and a cloud of
death now loomed across the quarrelling crowd. Billy had hoped to pull a prank on Todd by murdering his younger
brother, but this lighthearted gag had backfired. One by one, everybody at the game got to try anthrax for the first
time. This would later be referred to by the community with the snappy name of “That day when everybody at the
Brooksdale Beavers and Pickville Predators soccer game died from anthrax.” All had perished except for the ref,
who had kept a healthy distance from the children as instructed. He stood flabbergasted, wondering aloud if the 100-
foot rule still applied to child corpses.
(This space unintentionally left blank.)
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