Blog entry

It's My Birthday, NOT YOURS

Song Of The Day: She Will Have Her Way / Neil Finn
Word Of The Day: Algophobia / Fear of pain

Yes my friends, it's been some time since I've blogged. As one might expect with a celebrity of my stature, I have received tens of thousands of letters, emails, and care packages inquiring as to my well being, and wishing me miraculousnesses of all variety. And to those people, I say: Fuck You. Leave me alone. Wait, no- hold me. I'm broken. Stay. Please, stay...AWAY FROM ME you needy, sticky losers! Jesus...forgive me. You know me, I'm pushing you away and it's a defense, it's my fear of intimacy, I'm terrified to let you in, to truly be present with you, because... because you are fucking FREAKS. You fucking FREAK me out. If I wanted feelings like this I'd go streaking through a haunted house. BLEHK! You creepy, spooky spectres, do you even realize- do you know you are ALL I have? Do you know you are the wind beneath my wings? I am lashing out at you because you are closest to me, it's not me talking, it's my wounds, my scars are speaking and you happen to be the object of my love, deep down it is love, it is love that tells me know you are as GROSS as bile itself. AGHHH!!!!! Seeing you is like bathing in a mucous-filled grave!

But seriously, where have I been? Why no blogs? What have I been doing? Even I want to know. I haven't seen myself in weeks. I just woke up with some odd bruises around the pelvis, and...

Realized I'd broken the World Record for longest continuous masturbation session. WORLD record. Did I mention I turned 34 today -this very day of January 11th happens to be my birthday- point being I am not a teenager anymore, so where do I get the pure boner mojo to whack off for two and half weeks without a single respite? Secret number one: I am able to masturbate while sleeping. No big whoop. It's called constant consciousness, and it's a basic feature of complete, total fucking enlightenment. Secret number two: Lots and lots of "fluffers". What's a fluffer do? Well, traditionally in porn, they keep the male star firm and erect before and between scenes by servicing him appropriately. Unobstructed I wouldn't need fluffers, but in order to live a productive life I must use both hands for some things, driving is one of them, sign language is another. I do volunteer as a sign-interpreter at University of Colorado, of course I can't be using my hands to masturbate while I'm sign-interpreting the coursework on Quantum Physics to a class of 160 attentive coeds, and so, in such situations I naturally have two or three of Robert Palmer's girls giving me fellatio, or in a real crunch I can get by with a quart of peanut butter and the unremitting lapping power of my seeing eye dog "Shep".

Seeing eye dog? Why, I didn't know you were blind, Stuart.

Well, I WASN'T, until about a week into this self-pleasuring marathon. It turns out the Catholics are right. First, I began to go cross eyed. Next, my vision narrowed, its aperture ever constricting with each successive stroke of my 10 inch member. Curiously, this diminishment of vision acted as an aphrodesiac, and the wood went from Spruce to Oak. So intense was this unholy operation of phalanges on phallus that OTHER people started to go blind -generally anyone within a 20 foot radius of my Oympic Diddle experienced a blurring. Once completely blind, I realized God was punishing me for indulging the sin of skin, and if I was going to both continue whacking off and flip God the bird, I needed to rectify my disability. The next day, I got a seeing eye dog, which I named "Shep". To be precise, I got a person- an intern at my record label- to don a full body dog suit and perform the myriad functions of a seeing eye dog, which include getting all that Jiff off of my stiff. Problem solved, and Shep has shown no signs of optic incapacity in relation to my Guiness Book-breaking root pull. To the contrary his enthusiasm has seemed, well, almost anthropomorphic.

So how did it all end? That's the best part. After two and half weeks, while re-playing the hot, steamy fall of the Berllin Wall over and over in my mind's eye, I finally let loose a cascade of DNA spray, a blast felt 'round the entire County- just ask any of the 13 previously despondant, barren women in the Boulder area who finally conceived! We're expecting 15 babies (including two sets of conjoined twins) this October. That's the good part. The tough part is I'm demanding the little bastards all be put up for adoption. The good news is I'm the one who's going to adopt them. The bad news is it's all a procreative shell game used to populate my cult community, answering a desperate need for slave labor in the compound. The good news is those children -MY children- will grow up and one day have kids of their own- with each other, in-breeding and in-breeding until our family has produced the final, perfect combination of human traits. The bad news is, having propogated my genetic talent for self-pleasure, my descendents are bound to surpasse my taboo acheivement many times over. And that, my friends, is the best birthday present of all.

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