The Douchebag Bible (10 page)

another about what they're capable of; pageants of lustful

deceit where sick fucks like myself go to keep our sicknesses

from destroying us. Zoophiles, pedophiles, slaves, masters,

cannibalism fetishists, sadists, masochists—monsters of all

shapes, sizes and colors congregating in a judgment-free

environment for the purpose of helping each other get off. It's

a beautiful thing, really.

Ted, the overweight divorced accountant from Virginia

becomes Ted, the tall, muscular polygamist with seven curvy

wives that he slaps around for his amusement and 12

daughters that he molests on the side. I talk to him as Debbie,

the luscious and naive 19-year-old that's looking to become

wife number 8. We both know that we’re being deceived, and

we don't care. We're telling lies to each other and stroking our

cocks all the while.

Ted and I have made a connection. A real one. Sure, it's

based on deception, but it's a mutual deception, a deception

that we have both consented to. I jerk off to your lies, you jerk

off to mine. That's what scientists call a symbiotic relationship.

It's amazing how, in a world where people are so

disconnected from one another, some of us can find true and

meaningful (I'm tempted to say “loving”) connection in the

most unlikely of places.

You can rape my daughter if you want. Sure, I don't

have a daughter and if I did there's no way in hell I'd let you

so much as
glance
at her, but in this consequence free

environment, feel free to exercise your demons on her. Slit her

throat and fuck the wound if you want to. It doesn't matter.

I'm not judging you. I'm jerking you.

IT’S SMALL.

GET OVER IT.

People always feel the need to defend my penis from me, even

when I’m not attacking it. All I have to do is mention that it is

small and people will say, “I’m sure it’s just fine.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t fine. I just said it was small.”

“It’s not small, I’m sure.”

“No,” I insist, puzzled that they would argue with me

about a piece of my anatomy, “It is.”

“It probably just looks small because you’re such a big

guy.”

“Well, that probably makes it look smaller, but even

disregarding that, it’s small.”

“Why are you so down on yourself?” they ask.

“I’m not,” I always explain at that point. “I don’t have

anything against my penis, but the fact is that it is a small

penis. Any shame I might have about that I lost after getting

laid a few times and realizing that it wasn’t the end of the

world.”

A girl told me a story once. She told me that she was

once lying naked in bed, legs spread apart, waiting for some

guy she had just met to come in and fuck her. He entered the

room, looked down at her, and started undressing. But at that

last crucial moment, the revelation of what he was packing, he

unveiled a miniscule member, probably roughly the size of

mine, and she closed her legs instantly and left him standing

there to wallow in his woe.

I told her, “You’re lucky it wasn’t me. I’d have busted

your fucking nose.”

So maybe I am still a little sensitive about it.

But hey, it’s easier to convince chicks to do anal.

ILL LOGIC

I am not easily bored. I'm very content with tranquility,

because my mind is a circus freak show of deformed demons

and holy holes. I can sit for hours in what is perceived as

aloofness, when in reality, or rather, out of reality, I am

moving at a million miles a second, reveling in my genius and

lamenting my idiocy. I sit there with a blank expression on my

face—the world scarcely pays attention. They have no idea

that I am in another place; a place where the beauty of

ugliness is understood completely and so am I. In this

wonderful, horrible world, I am an all-powerful god, whose

every perversion is immediately fulfilled. I reign over the

populace like the eidolon named night from Edgar Allen Poe's

poem,
Dream-land
. I suppose that is exactly what the world of

my thoughts is: a dream-land.

The real world finds me in an infinitely less enjoyable

position. I am a spineless coward, insecure in myself and

unable to muster the will to take any step towards improving

the quality of my existence. Despite the fact that I am blessed

with luxuries that most don't have, I am apathetic. Even in

the face of adversity, I remain unfazed and uncaring. I neglect

my hygiene to the point of disgusting those around me. I am

infatuated with a pathetic fantasy world that is obviously a

product of my shallow, meaningless life. Dream-land is

basically a necessary antithesis of reality—artificial flavoring

if you will.

I take some (but not much) comfort in the knowledge

that I am at least intelligent enough to analyze and

understand my delusions. That is supposed to be the mark of

a true philosopher: the ability to analyze ones own delusions.

It is for this reason that I have chosen to write this. I feel that

we live in times that are in need of a new philosopher; someone

who realizes both his inadequacy and his greatness; his

kindness and his cruelty; his love and his lust. That someone

is me—or it isn't. Only my time and your ridicule will tell.

It is amazing how many people can formulate a

rationale to justify their actions or further their cause.

Obviously, logic is not flawless. It is, in all honesty, very flawed.

Different minds make different connections and have different

prejudices; therefore we are inclined to side with the rationale