Title: [Untitled]

Title: [Untitled]

Characters:
Greg – A nerdy, mid-20’s accountant. Very lame and mild mannered personality. Uses office jargon a lot.
Alter Boy – A latently gay and polite, religious zealot who is clueless
Captain Yo-Yo – If a Skip It commercial came to life and was a wigger. Actually terrible at the yo-yo.
Dungeon Master – Your typical heavy set, snarky, and irreverent nerd

Setting: A library conference room. There is a large table with a macbook resting on it, a few chairs, and a white board with a few scribbles on it. Three men are sitting at the table while one stands. There are some wayward pieces of paper on the table.

[open]

GREG
Alright, this is good. This is great. Look’s like everyone is here so…I guess I’ll begin. [Ahem]. My name is Greg Higgins. I’m a former accounting underling of Black Mantis, who, as you all know, was arrested along with Beaver Man, The Prankster, Dr. Velocity, uh…Hot Cop; basically, the entire League of Bay Area Super Villains. That day was a real barn-burner. They were arrested…for forever…by that insufferable, Dewlapped Destroyer, Moose Man. [chuckling] I uh…don’t think I need to tell you guys, our feelings, about uh…that guy [smiling].

OTHER THREE MEN
[silence]

GREG
So, that is why I, the last part of LOBASV, combed all the Bay Area high schools and assembled you guys…the best, up-and-coming super villains, this town has to offer! The young blood! Seriously, give yourselves a round of applause!

Greg applauds enthusiastically alone.

GREG
‘Cause seriously, it’s all about you guys. We are going to recontextualize the villainy in this town and together, get that dirty so-n-so Moose Man. So, what I would like to do right now is continue onto our next action item which is part 2 of the itinerary-

CPT. YO-YO
Yo, I didn’t get no eye-tinrary.

GREG
…well, why don’t you share with him and… it’ll work out. It's fine. You don’t really need an itinerary for this part right now ‘cause what we’re gonna do is introduce ourselves, sorta, familiarize ourselves with each other, become real homies, right bro-hams? [awkward pause] And then we’ll come up with a plan for killing Moose Man. So, why don’t we start with…you, in the blouse. Stand up, tell us your name aaaaand what you’re about! Go.

Alter Boy stands.

ALTER BOY
Well first off, this is not a blouse; it’s a surplice-

CPT. YO-YO
[to Dungeon Master] It’s a very pretty blouse…

ALTER BOY
Hey, shut up. It’s not a blouse! It’s a surplice and, the ladies, love it. They just…swarm all over me all the time-

CPT. YO-YO
They flock to your smock.

ALTER BOY
They flock to my smock. But I would never fornicate with harlots because-

DUNGEON MASTER
You’re gay.

Dungeon Master and Cpt. Yo-Yo chuckle.

ALTER BOY
No. Because it’s villainous to leave girls in wanting.

Dungeon Master and Cpt. Yo-Yo make faces at the weird phrasing.

GREG
Listen, Alter Boy. I know, we’re all amped. Everyone here wants to kill Moose Man really really bad, but plans for villainy aren’t until item 6; check your itinerary. So why don’t you take a few power breaths, collect your thoughts, and continue.

ALTER BOY
[annoyed] Fine. I am Alter Boy; the Catholic Shape Shifter-

Dungeon Master and Cpt. Yo-Yo burst out laughing.

ALTER BOY
-THE CATHOLIC SHAPE SHIFTER, AND THROUGH MENTAL PRAYER, LORD, MAKE ME AN INSTURMENT OF THY PEACE, IN JESUS NAME KILL MOOSE MAN AMEN.

Alter Boy sits down quickly.

GREG
Thank you, Alter Boy. That had a lot of goodness. Let’s see. Captain Yo-Yo! You’ve been hot-desking with Dungeon Master a lot today. Why don’t you stand up and tell us about yourself?

CPT. YO-YO
Hey, Greg. Why don't you fuck off?

GREG
‘Scuse me?

CPT. YO-YO
My name ain’t Captain Yo-Yo. It’s Captain Yo-Yo, the Jr. Spin Champion of Oklahoma City. You gotta say the whole thing, otherwise you sound as gay as Mr. down-on-your-knees over here.

DUNGEON MASTER
Hey-O.

ALTER BOY
I’m not going to sit here and pretend to understand what that’s supposed to mean, Mr., Mr., whoever-that-long-named-singer-man-lady-person-from-the-90’s-was. Mr. Long Name. Uh…purple rain!

DUNGEON MASTER
What?

CPT. YO-YO
Prince? Are you trying to talk about Prince?

DUNGEON MASTER
Jesus Christ you suck.

ALTER BOY
Hey, hold thy tongue, Dungeon Master! Why don’t you go back to your mom’s basement which is where your dungeon lair is. Probably.

DUNGEON MASTER
Yeah, that’s right. My mom’s basement is my dungeon. And her bedroom is my sex dungeon; where I butt-fucked Jesus.

CPT. YO-YO
OH SNAP! That’s what up!

ALTER BOY
Wh-wh-…

DUNGEON MASTER
Pwned.

CPT. YO-YO
Villainous!

ALTER BOY
Greg!

GREG
I’m sorry, Alter Boy, but I’m going to have to go ahead and agree with Cpt. Yo-Yo that what Dungeon Master said was quite villainous.

CPT. YO-YO
Mmhmm, yeah. That’s what he said! How's my dick taste, son?!

ALTER BOY
Hey, Why are they even here?! I can shape shift, for gosh’s sake! They don’t even have any powers!

CPT. YO-YO
Hey hey hey hey woah woah…wait a sec. Don’t you go comparing Captain Yo-Yo, Jr. Spin Champion of Oklahoma City with dime store Kevin Smith over there. I got powers. Check it!

Cpt. Yo-Yo starts to stand up, first by taking his feet off the table

DUNGEON MASTER
[to Alter Boy] Where do you get off saying I don’t have any powers, you little butt nut?

CPT. YO-YO
Boom!

Cpt. Yo-Yo spreads his arms, brandishes his bandolier of yo-yos, and opens his hands. Several yo-yos (4) unfurl and land on the table.

CPT. YO-YO
Yo, what’s good now, son?! Ever been smacked upside the dome with one of these?! I don’t think so! This shit hurt more than suckin' on Johnny Law's night stick, feel me ya pussay ass bi-otch?

DUNGEON MASTER
Why the fuck are you even here? Why would some newb like you ever try to be a super villain?

CPT. YO-YO
Yo I got yo-yo weapons, yo-yo traps…

ALTER BOY
They say we alter boys live dangerous lives…

Dungeon Master and Cpt. Yo-Yo speak at the same time

CPT. YO-YO
Whaaaaaaaa….

DUNGEON MASTER
Man, that is such total bullshit. I bet my BangBus subscription that you've never even seen that movie.

GREG
This is good, people. This is a really good robust dialogue going on. I can feel the synergy. I’m gonna give this part just a few more minutes but then we are really gonna wanna move on to item 3 in our itinerary -which I believe is…Our Scarred, Emotional Pasts- if we want to make it out of the library before it closes.

CPT. YO-YO
Yo, fuck the eye-tinrary! Let’s just jump that motherfucking moose and ice his ass. I. Don’t. Give. A. FUCK! I’ve kilt bikers, I’ve kilt jump ropers, I totally fuckin’ dropped this one bitch on a Skip-It…

DUNGEON MASTER
I’ve got my stepdad’s car outside. I guess we could run him over or something. I don’t care if that car gets dented; I hate Steve.

ALTER BOY
I could shape shift into a baby lamb as a distraction. That could work!

OTHER THREE MEN
[silence]

GREG
Jeeze, this is like herding cats. OK, guys. I'm gonna be above-board for a sec. I think our main problem here is agreeance. We need to be proactive. Let's start a dialogue and air it out. No more of this imagineering on how to kill Moose Man when I’ve got a 57-point slide show on exactly how to do it. The first step: understanding ourselves. And each other.

CPT. YO-YO
[disillusioned] Yo, alright, that’s it. Captain Yo-Yo, Jr. Spin Champion of Oklahoma City ‘bout to peace the fuck on out of here. So, so long, douche, Mr. Kevin Smith, Pride Parade over here; I’m ‘bout to ride out on my yo-yo-nicycle. Maybe rob a bank, pick up some bomb-ass hoola hoop pussy, you know, whatevers down by the boardwalk. So uh…don’t none of you hacks follow me, or try to evil around with me ever again. Aiight. Peace!

Cpt. Yo-Yo flips a hardcore peace sign and swaggers out of the room.

DUNGEON MASTER
Yo-yo-nicycle?

GREG
I’m not quite sure what that is either.

DUNGEON MASTER
A yo-yo unicycle?

GREG
[chuckles] What a spark plug.

DUNGEON MASTER
How would he even sit? How is that physically possible?

ALTER BOY
I bet it’s like this loooong [demonstrating with arms] piece of string that sticks straight up in the air that you sit on and it hurts. Ew. That would be awful.

DUNGEON MASTER
Oh, who are you fooling? We know you think that sounds delicious.

ALTER BOY
[praying] Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccáta mundi, dona nobis tyrannosaurus rex.

DUNGEON MASTER
What are you doing?

ALTER BOY
[still praying] Shape shifting into a dinosaur so I can bite your face off.

DUNGEON MASTER
Now, are you shape shifting into a pre- or post- great flood T-rex? Because Noah totally had them on his boat, and, I just want to know-

ALTER BOY
Shut up.

DUNGEON MASTER
-if I should be worried or not. ‘Cause, pre-great flood T-rex had no immunities to human diseases-

ALTER BOY
Shut up!

DUNGEON MASTER
-so I could just kill them with a sneeze or something like that.

ALTER BOY
Fuck you!

GREG
Yeah…and I think on that note, at least for right now, we’re done. Good meeting, gang. Seriously. Very proactive.

Pointless Update

Apology in advance. This blog update is pointless.

I’m writing something big and new and complex and unfamiliar and hopefully funny.

Catch my untitled script about awful super villains this Friday. It should be done by then.

BFFs Forever

(Note: the second F stands for Fucking)

Although we are genetically superior to every one of God’s creatures, they never cease to amaze us with their human mimickry. These soulless automatons run the gamut of apparent intelligence from “none” all the way up to “retarded human child”. Of course, it isn’t real intelligence; you need to accept Jesus Christ into your heart before your mind can open up and receive the divine light of knowledge radiating from God’s throne in Heaven. And that is a physical impossibility for anyone but humans.

Clyde the Orangutan is so apparently smart he resembles a gangly, pot-bellied hillbilly child from Georgia. Look at him; put him in a pair of overalls and a straw hat, maybe a little chew in his lip and boom – he’d look ready to rape some city boys a-la Deliverance extra bonus footage. But unlike most unwashed poor people, Clyde “knows” sign language. To be fair, I would have been condescending and put “knows” in quotation marks if I were talking about hillbillies “knowing” sign language. Some creatures that walk this earth are just too dumb to know anything.

Clyde’s life partner is Ruby, a Blue Tick Hound. He’s good for rooting around, chasing rabbits down hollers and stirring up small game for Clyde to pick off with some buckshot. Sike. That’s a lie. But the two are inseparable and they do kill animals together.

I visited Clyde on his salt-of-the-earth hunk of land that the government was nice enough to donate to the National Wildlife Federation, of which Clyde is not a member of due to his communication skills. He’s basically squatting in a dirt pile owned by the federal government which is so In Your Face it’s almost punk. But that’s cool with Clyde. He and Ruby spend most of their days just kicking it and occasionally raiding the weekly flea market, heavy on some Mongol Viking Raider Bezerker type shit. That part’s not true either but I just like the visual since Clyde does look like Attila the Hun (not racist). For some reason their presence has been missed for the past 3 weekends. That’s why I came down for a visit.

I failed sign language in middle and high school but we seemed to vibe each other out well enough to quell the murderous desires fuming inside us both.

Me [signing]: Hello, Clyde
(Clyde remained aloof as he fondled his penis)

Whatcha doin’, Clyde?
[Signing] Chase tickle.

Where is Ruby?
Kill dog. Dead good bye.

Ruby is dead? Who killed Ruby?
Hard killing. Bad dog.

Clyde. Who killed Ruby, Clyde.
(Clyde stuck his toes in his mouth and rolled onto his back)

Did you kill Ruby, Clyde?
You bird

[Out loud] You little shit.
He is breakable. Me know from study.

Where is Ruby? Where is Ruby’s body?
Me am not having picture of me in article.

Where is his body, Clyde?
Rotten. Stink.

Clyde. Where is his body?
Shame.

Clyde!
In dirty toilet.

I found Ruby’s decomposing body in Clyde’s outhouse.

Why, Clyde?
No want jealous attention. Sorry.

Why were you jealous of Ruby?
He can lick privates.

That still doesn’t explain-
He can lick privates.

Clyde…
Good.

Animals are dumb.

History’s Mysteries: Walt Disney’s Head, Part 2

How did 1 misplaced frozen head launch the end of the world? Why did Walt Disney freeze his head to begin with? And where is it now?

The real catalyst happened earlier than you think. It was during the so called “Golden Age” of cartoons, from 1937-1941. Some might look at that date and think the parallels between an anti-Semitic cartoon mogul and Adolph Hitler’s growing war machine are “a stretch”, and “specious at best”. Well let me tell you something, Buster Brown; fuck you.

See, this was after Walt spent over a decade fellating the egos and dicks of rich Hollywood Jew executives. Breaking into a new town isn’t easy, especially if your weapon of choice is a drawing of a teenage mutant ninja mouse on a steamboat.

Walt’s growing empire and paranoia are what led him to make his first major decision related to the apocalypse. He decided to surround himself with a team of cartoon animators who shared his controversial beliefs about Jews, genetic superiority, and the coming race war. They were going to make the best family-friendly cartoons ever! This is what led him to travel to Nazi Germany and personally ask Hitler to take back to America the Third Reich’s greatest cartoonist.

Baron Von Strauss. A disciplined man. A man of no nonsense. A bed-wetter and pyromaniac. A reclusive, hate-filled man who secretly killed cats for fun. And, a life long friend to Walt. He didn’t mind Von Strauss’ eye patch or gimp. He thought the facial scars added panache. When they weren’t animating, the two would sit around for hours, reading exerts of Mein Kampf by the fire, sipping fine chardonney and quietly giggling in a silent understanding.

The years passed in unparalleled bliss. But there was trouble in paradise. Unbeknownst to Von Strauss, Hollywood and himself, Walt Disney had a malignant brain tumor (in addition to a myriad of other congenital conditions, including Peyronie’s Disease and The Evil Gene). Just as their media empire finished the first of their giant induction compounds located in California, it appeared as if Walt was not destined to see his labors come to fruition. After a chemotherapy session, Walt told Von Strauss that he would have to carry on his legacy of hate mongering and propaganda as he resigned himself to death.

What would you do?

What would any battle tested Nazi foot soldier who may or may not had sex with his commanding officer do? Spit in the face of God, that’s what.

Pulled straight from Hitler’s playbook, Baron Von Strauss initiated Operation: Long Winter. It was originally a contingency plan to prevent sterilization in case radioactive fallout levels were too high for human testicular survival. What it required was for Disney (the Fuhrer) to be flash frozen with cryogenics, have his head removed and placed in a jar. Then Von Strauss collected some of Walt’s sperm by jacking off his dead body. When the sperm was collected, it was placed in a vial, then that vial was put in the jar with his head, then that jar would be placed as the head of an indestructible robot body powered by burning coal .

(Note, this was almost impossible for Von Strauss to pull off since he embezzled the money for this project from The Disney Company’s new idea of computer animated 3-D cartoons, setting back the development of that project over 30 years. It was either Immortal Giant Frozen Head of Walt Disney or Toy Story and he made an executive decision.)

…

And then that’s it. No one knows exactly what happened next. But some people think it looked a little like this…

WHERE DID HIS HEAD/SPERM GO?!




Tune in tomorrow for the thrilling conclusion. “History’s Mysteries: Walt Disney’s Head, Part 3”

We haven’t even gotten to the clone wars and the fall of civilization yet.

History’s Mysteries: Walt Disney’s Head, Part 1

Walt Disney lived the American Dream.

Born into the squalor of middle class life, he faced many hardships; hardships that no baby should burden alone. But those first, lonely, hard years of his life did not build character so much as reveal it.

The Chicago, Illinois of 1901 was much different than the Chicago of 2009. Or even 2001. Or hell, 1975. I think that’s the year it finally changed but don’t quote me on that. Point is, 1901 Chi-town was more of a fetid, Dickensian nightmare than a habitable metropolis. It was here among the abject poverty and boxcars on top of boxcars crammed with rotting cow flesh, that a spunky little rat-faced baby named Walter Elias Disney “fell out” and began his life journey.

Back in those days the only people who called themselves artists were renowned homosexuals or unabashedly French. Men like Felix Copperfield or Jacques Marcel Gazelle Lafayette de Calonne, who could mince into any city and start their own gallery, men of the era of whom Disney first dreamed of. Baby Walt had always admired the do-all-and-everything bravado of such gallant men, and wished to be with them, but his father would not have a gay French dandy as offspring.

He wished his son to grow up like the men he admired, the men who worked a factory job with him. Tired, salt of the earth men, who slaved away their lives for the company’s sake, under incredibly unsafe machinery, crooked bosses, and a ton of fart jokes. He wished for his son to one day be a hardened, wizen old man, amongst the ranks of legends of the conveyor belt; men like 8-Finger Fitzpatrick, Black Steve, and “The Man They Just Call Swifty”.

If Baby Walt showed any artistic talent, his proclivity would be gently curbed by his well-meaning father. For minor things like wall scribbles or cooed lullabies, Baby Walt was subjected to beatings by his father. Day after day, every day, when he came home from work at the Meat Cannery, did his father whip the shit out of with an old hickory stick until Walt turned 5.

Walt’s only outlet for his rage was his drawings. In 1906, he created the first Mickey Mouse drawing; a proto-Mickey grabbing his dick and sneering. It was an attempted caricature of his father, his demon tormentor, drawn as a hideous, clawed rat. Lacking proper artistic supplies, he drew it on a piece of old garbage with rat feces, both of which were more than abundant around his little 2-room shack next to the county dump.

How could he realize at that moment that his literal and metaphorical shit drawing would launch a media empire and billion dollar international corporation that would change the face of western civilization forever?

The all powerful, soulless, consuming beast that is the Walt Disney Company descended upon man like a plague, raping the Good Earth of its resources and corrupting the hearts of all.

And lo, did Gaia, the spirit of the Earth, no longer stood the terrible destruction of our planet. She sent 5 special rings to 5 special young people: Kwame, from Africa, with the power of Earth; from North America, Wheeler, with the power of fire; from the Soviet Union, Linka, with the power of wind; from Asia, Gi, with the power of water, and from South America, Mahttee, with the power of heart. When the 5 powers combined, the summon Earth’s greatest champion – Captain Planet!

And yay, did Captain Planet fall too in the face of opposition, from the Disney Company’s army of robotic pirates wielding the spines of 3rd world sweat shop slaves like mace.

This was all activated by Baron Von Strauss after the Operation: Long Winter mishap, right before the second Clone War, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the real beginning.







Comming soon: "History's Mysteries: Walt Disney's Head, Part 2"

Dustin Diamond Dead, 32

(Santa Barbara, CA) At 7:17 eastern standard time, Dustin Diamond was declared dead at St. Francis Medical Center .

Diamond, the 32 year old stand-up "comedian", former costar of Saved By the Bell, and all around terrible human being, allegedly died in a skirmish involving a transsexual prostitute.

“At this point, we are not revealing any details regarding an on-going investigation, but based on immediate findings of the body, we can deduce that Screech may have been with a tranny-hooker,” says Police Chief John Fitzsimmons.

Universally hated former TV nerd Screech was found in a dumpster behind a Quiznos sandwich shop. “The alley is locally known for being a gathering spot for very mannish black men in drag,” added Fitzsimmons. “I’m like 99% sure he said something to piss one off, probably the fact he played Screech.”

When asked whether Diamond used his credentials as Screech to secure free or discounted sex, Fitzsimmons said the idea was “probable.”

This morning, Quiznos issued a press release.

“Since our inception in 1981, Quiznos has always been a vocal opponent of transsexual prostitutes, murder, and shitty actors. We feel that the circumstances around this event are very unfortunate but are no way related to our commitment to providing you delicious, toasted sandwiches at affordable prices.”

Already the celebrity world is reeling from the joy Screech’s death brings.

Saved By the Bell co-star Tiffani Thiessen responded with the news by saying, “I’m surprised the little turd didn’t die sooner.

“He was always such a colossal fuck-up. See, when we were on the set, everyone else, me, Mark, Dennis, Lark…we were all acting. Dustin doesn’t know how to act. He thought he was in a real high school. We had to ad-lib lines and plot devices to compensate but it made for a very watchable show.” She added, “Fuck him. He's got 'bergers, or is like autistic or someting.”

Mario Lopez and Mark-Paul Gosselaar also spoke candidly about Diamond’s death.

“Summer is the season of death for celebrities. I don’t know what it is but the heat just kills the most random ones,” said Lopez.

“Yeah, but there’s no way you can say Dustin was a celebrity,” corrected Gosselaar.

“That’s true. Yes, that’s very true. He was no Billy Mays.”

“God said he needed a salesman, so he took Billy. God said he needed a singer, so he took Michael Jackson. And then the devil said he needed an asshole, so he took Screech.”

“That’s the perfect name for a demon who tortures the souls of the damned by telling awful Saved By the Bell jokes and then wiping off the shit on his dick on their face.”

“Yeah…”

“Yeah I’m gonna go pray and I suggest you come with me.”

Lopez was referring to the Dustin Diamond self-made sex-tape Screeched aka, Saved By the Smell leaked on the internet in 2006 where Diamond portrays himself giving his fiancé and her best friend a Dirty Sanchez. Whether or not the two women were willing participants remains an item of controversy.

Services for the 32 year old “comedian” have not been planned. (The editor in chief of MarkReissBlog believes it is wise to put the word comedian in quotation marks because nothing of Dustin Diamond’s standup career can be considered funny; nor does it adhere to the legal definition of entertainment.)


Update: Sources indicate that the immediate family of Dustin Diamond has already released ideas for his tombstone. The working model will be a giant 6-foot tall bust of Diamond's head with the epitaph etched into the forehead: "Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee; and ye shall be saved by it."

I'm an Idiot

Who is dumber?

1) The daughter of my coworker who ran over her cell phone with a lawn mower or

2)Me who deleted 2 full pages of an uncomplete blog update?

Either way you're waiting until tomorrow to read anything substantial. I've got some work to ignore.

Everyone is at Least a Little Bit Gay

We live in a world populated by 6,706,993,152 people, and every single one of them is at least a little bit gay.

Ignoring those who are actual gays, lesbians, and dudes in Indonesia who were born male but raised female, everyone has some sort of affectation that makes them lighter in the shoes. I’d include a link here but I don’t need a search of “Indonesian Transsexuals” showing up at my work’s IT department.

All women, half the Earth’s population, are done. Boom. Simply by virtue of the fact they are women, they are slightly gay. Not like, “they act like gay men” (or vice versa) gay. I mean that it is permissible for two women folk to get all close and shit. Rubbin’ on each other. Smellin’ they hair ‘n’ shit. Two quick anecdotes:

One time in college, (I should end my story right there), two female friends came up to me drunk and asked if I would pay them 20 dollars to make out with each other. Please. It’s not like they were strapped for cash; they were strapped for reasons to make out and not look gay. I say go for it. Revel in it. In front of their boyfriends no less. The second anecdote is like the first except they didn’t try to extort money out of me or even tell me they were going to do it. They just did. And it was cool. I guess.

Now for the guys. Europe is also done. I could go on and on about the culture, prep school for boys, the French, etc. But the fact of the matter is that everyone from the fey-est queef waif of a slave in a Parisian S&M club to the roughest rough-neck ex-Soviet meat head homophobe, everyone in the motherland listens to the faggiest, faggy techno music ever. And they dance to it. Willingly, like, with each other.

(I’d like to pause for a moment and state that I’m not writing this because the Bruno movie is coming out in a week. That is purely coincidental).

The Middle East is surprisingly gay. Arab culture stresses that women dress like little non-sexual sand ninjas while the men greet each other with cheek kisses. Hand holding is encouraged. So is plucking your eyebrows. And although I’ve never actually been there, I hear billboards advertise with these big muscled, speedo-clad oily Europeans selling shit like baby oil or something. That whole region of the world looks as if those Queer Eye guys, if that fucking show is even still around, took a NYC taxi fleet garage and made it look like west Hollywood.

The North American male is a little bit harder to discern, but the results are always the same. If you were ever in a frat, you’re a bit gay. All that brotherhood, professional drinking “bro love” hugging stuff just breeds homosexual undertones. Even the most male bonding experience, eg.; gang-banging some passed out freshmen chick, is pretty gay. I mean, it’s a bunch of naked dudes in a room. The male to female ratio is way out of line. Plus, they’re all able to keep it up after looking at Fat Chad’s micro-penis.

If you own a gun you don’t necessarily have a small penis. Yes, a gun is a cock-substitute, but not necessarily for your own. Ever get the urge to just hold one?

Here’s how I’m gay: I actively visit the site Cute Overload. Every day, I gotsta get my cute animal fix. Common. Who cannot honestly like this:

That is a kitten with balloons tied to it and I think it’s adorable and if you have a problem with that I will chop your fucking head off you fucking shit fuck ass.

The only thing I can think of that’s not gay is when you fill out income tax/finance forms alone in a room with no windows because that is the most asexual, libido destroying activity in the world.