I’m so fan-fucking-tastic, I beat off to the thought of how successful I’m going to be due to another great idea I had today. I’m going start a new website coupled with this one that will make me so rich and powerful, I’ll be able to stab screaming children in the throat at Wal-Mart in front of the Pope and the Supreme Court Justices and still walk down the street to a strip club and call myself God. Morons, I will soon be the proud host of a new website:

Click me!

Holy shit, I just shot a load in my belly button thinking about how much money I’m going to make off of this. Just kidding. I don’t have a belly button. I simply willed myself into existence because I’m that fucking great. This is exactly what the internet needs: a place where all you bleeding-heart, weird-ass mother fuckers (and I mean that literally because let’s face it, you door-knob fuckers have probably gone inside your mothers more often than you’ve come out by a multiple of three) can go and connect through your anal fisting fantasies and share your terrible meterless poetry and ponder why Lucy Loosepuss or Dirk Dicklick doesn’t want to date you. Then just when the site has reached its peak and I’ve made trillions, I can gather you ar-tards together in one building by tracking your IP addresses and sending you a mass email saying there’s a dumbass convention and you and all your dick mutilating, piss gargling friends are invited. Then when you’re all inside, I’ll lock the doors, jump out a fifty story window, break the fall with my face because I’m that damn manly, piss on the building and light it on fire since I piss gasoline. Then I can solve the country’s oil and rising debt crises by pissing crude oil and shitting diamonds.

Jesus’ fucking sandals this is a good idea. I’m surprised I didn’t think of it sooner. Then again I have a busy schedule of downloading porn and actively restraining myself from wringing the necks of you morons who bitch about how mean people are to you because you’re too stupid to take a hint and continue to sit in the bushes with your pants off waiting for that girl to diddle her clit to the blown up photos of my junk she’s got as her wall paper in her room until your eyes pop out and prompt a violent skull fucking with my hairy fist. Fuck you. I win.

-I’m a fucking genius.

With the holidays just around the corner, there’s no better time than now to be altruistic. Truly, the greatest gift you can give to anyone is the gift of love and peace, but unless you’ve morphed into the thick outer lips of a hippy’s vaginal cavern, you’re going to want to give something more material. You’re going to want to buy that certain someone something that says “Yeah, I bought this (car, pearl necklace, Great American Challenge) for (exorbitant amount of money, the opportunity cost of me taking 10 minutes to jerk off, $78.99 + divorce fees since I can’t give her 16 inches of purple pleasure), laud me for my altruism.” There’s nothing like a healthy dose of altruism during the holidays to ensure that you get something of equal or greater worth. It’s the perfect scheme.

I’ve taken the time out of my busy schedule of viciously masturbating and kicking in skulls while masturbating to construct a list of the most altruistic gifts you can give to your loved one in order to get what you truly want: butt sex. To all of you who say you don’t want butt sex, that it’s gross and wrong: you want butt sex. Trust me. Saying you’re anti-butt sex means you’re pro-vaginal. And since you’re all stupid enough to believe that love is a great contraceptive, you’ll end up with children because you’re too poor or stupid to get an abortion. The last thing we need is kids, especially kids with a gene pool more shallow than your average jizz puddle. I’m doing you ar-tards a favor. You can give me a thank you beej later.

So here are some options you can get your loved one for the holidays and how effective they will be in getting you into the VIP room through the back door.

Fragrances

There’s nothing that says “I love you, let’s have butt sex” quite like a $65.00 stink cover-up. Apparently, smelling like a combination of cheap-trick whore and violets gets women moist in their pink parts…if not, it’s the subtle message you send when you buy this shit for women:

Oh yeah, she loves it when you talk dirty.
Price: $65
Butt sexiness: 2 of 10

Chances are you won’t be filling in her pooey pothole with any of your asphalt this holiday season if you buy her funk in a bottle. On the bright side, there’s no more perfect re-gift than a fragrance.

Dildo

Face it, you’re not a Dead-Eye Dick. Remember that time you fucked your girlfriend and thought your dick was smashing into her cervix? All you were doing was fucking her taint. Stick with apples and leave the cherries to people who aren’t shit-flinging apes, William Tell. Assuming you can man up and buy her that big purple sixteen incher you read about while masturbating to her diary, you might be able to convince her to put the purple pearl in her clam while you putz around her poop hole.

Price: $55-$90
Butt sexiness: this, according to my friend and fellow genius Bprime, can be expressed thus:

f(t)=2/(t+1)^2 [Where t=0 is the initial day she receives the faux phallus.]

“As you can see, as t -> ∞, chances of butt sex -> 0. When t=0 your chances of butt sex double. But the very next day your chances of butt sex are only half of the normal amount and it only gets worse from there on out.”

Thus, anal opportunities will fall at boner killing rates until one day she’ll leave you to pursue a career in muff diving, armed with a new hatred for men as a result of your sexual sucktitude in comparison to her Christmas present, The Grimace.

How does it feel to have it algebraically proven that you probably won’t get laid a day after the holidays, nerd?

Money & Astroglide

Quick, easy and to the point, the line separating casual sex from prostitution has never been grayer. There isn’t much that makes a pair of panties moister than a huge wad of cash. She’ll be so floored by your altruism that she won’t be able to say no to your proposition of butt sex. Unless she has respect for herself.

Price: $20-$510 (the more respect she has for herself, the higher the price)
Butt sexiness: 8 of 10. Maybe 5% of women out there won’t have a price. The other 15% will do it for a hot meal…or a Hot Carl.

Diamonds

As if we needed anymore proof that women have fucking rocks in their heads. There is no better anal lubricant than a diamond. If you’re willing to throw down upwards of $600 or more on a fucking stone, I guarantee that you will fuck a butt that night. Shit, she’ll probably let you drill a hole in the back of her head and skull fuck her if you ask her politely after you give her a diamond.

Price: $599-$∞
Butt sexiness: 10 of 10. Buy a girl a diamond and she will let you dig around her coal mine.

-People agree: altruism kicks ass, as long as you get something out of it.

Have you ever been walking along, thinking about how unimaginably huge my scrotum must be to house my gargantuan nuts when your thoughts have been interrupted by some moron dragging her feet on the ground? Holy shit, it drives me up a fucking wall just thinking about it. How hard it is to pick your feet up when you’re walking so you don’t sound like a dumb fucking caveman when you move? A lot of times, people who drag their feet are doing one or more of the following annoying activities: talking on their cellphones about how much their tits hurt because they’re on their period, picking their shit stained pink thongs out of their cavernous asses and debating whether or not to smell their fingers, protesting globalization or giving to charity. I understand what a challenge it is for you clods to put one foot in front of the other without swallowing your tongues out of sheer stupidity but picking up your feet makes it that much easier. Every time I hear shoes scrape against concrete because people are too fucking lazy or stupid to pick up their fucking feet, I curse their mothers for not being more liberal jiggling the coat hanger in their disgraceful and unfortunately fertile wombs. On top of this, a lot of the people who walk like lobotomy patients tend to wear shitty backless shoes. Maybe if you dumbasses had backs on your fucking Birkenstocks you’d be able to walk like someone who didn’t smooth concrete for a living. “But Rigolega, if Birkenstocks had backs, they wouldn’t be Birkenstocks. They’d be shoes!” That’s the point you stupid fucking mouth breather. Put on a pair of shoes and use those hams on both sides of your overused sperm snagger to lift your feet a fucking inch off the ground, you useless bitch.

Birkenstocks fucking suck. Everyone I know who wears Birkenstocks thinks they’re so fucking great. They’re so easy to put on, they’re so comfortable, they’re so stylish. No. Birkenstocks are for fucking wimps. How hard is it to put on a pair of shoes and tie the fucking laces? Oh wait, I forgot that you idiots can hardly manage to breathe and piss at the same time without losing your balance and drowning in the toilet bowl. Birkenstocks are nothing more than glorified slippers. Only mental ward patients, child molesters and old people wear slippers outdoors. One time, I put on a pair of Birkenstocks for fun. Just kidding. Wearing Birkenstocks is about as fun as jamming a knitting needle in your dick hole to dig a fire ant out of your urethra. It’s also impossible to do any kind of ass kicking in Birkenstocks because they’d fly off mid leg swing. Unless you’re trying to hit someone with a projectile shoe, which is a defense mechanism of prostitutes, Birkenstocks are worthless. I swear the next girl that drags her feet in my presence because she’s wearing Birkenstocks is going to have a giant mushroom stamp on her tits after I club her with my dick.

I’m tired of seeing (alleged) guys prancing around in Birkenstocks like they’re the best thing since free streaming lesbian porn. The other day I was walking to class, kicking squirrels and cock slapping skanks into gutters when this putz with Birkenstocks started dragging his feet in front of me. He was on his cell phone, talking about how we was going to get his lip pierced because his slam pig girlfriend wanted them to have matching piercings. Or maybe he was asking his mother to send him a box of tampons for his monstrously wide vagina. I was too busy teabagging a hooker into the path of an oncoming street sweeper to listen. Either way, in the process of dragging his feet like an ass spelunking Neanderthal, the grating of his Birkenstocks against the concrete started getting on my nerves, so I ran up to him and suplexed him onto a nest of hornets. He was crying and swelling up like my cock when I finish slaughtering bears and eating them in one bite. He kept asking me to call an ambulance because he was allergic to bee stings. I told him to stop being an idiot because he was getting stung by hornets, not bees. Not wanting manslaughter charges on my hands, I remembered that pissing on stings helps neutralize the pain. But more importantly, I remembered that my piss cures cancer. So I pissed in a wheelbarrow and threw him in it. In the process, I forgot how incomprehensibly massive my nuts were and smothered a sorority. Fuck Birkenstocks.

-Girls dragged their feet in my presence on purpose so they could have their tits mushroom stamped.

Over the last couple of weeks, people have been coming to me and asking for relationship advice. Every single time, the first nugget I give them is to have their brains fuck started because they’re asking the wrong person. I do not pull bitches like hamstrings. I haven’t had a girlfriend in years. I have dandruff and enough hair on my taint to rival Ron Jeremy for hairiest area between the crotch and legs. Apparently women don’t like that, mostly because they hate anything manly. My solution to a crying female is giving her something to do, namely making me a sandwich. Asking me for relationship advice is akin to asking a hobo for a vasectomy, which is about as close to the top of the intelligence pillar as deep frying your cock in turkey grease.

Nonetheless, morons continue to come to me with this problem or that, asking me why girls don’t like them or why some guy is playing them. So I’m going to try and answer some of the questions I’ve been asked as objectively as I can, because I’m just that righteous.

Rigolega, my girlfriend and I are having a hard time.

A hard time what? A hard time looking at each other long enough without vomiting in each other’s asses? A hard time stretching the Saran Wrap over each other’s faces during your Cincinnati Steamer sessions? Your vagueness startles and offends my nutsack. Expect a teabagging in the near future. But if I had to guess, “girlfriend” would be the root of this hard time. Why the fuck are you bothering with locking yourself in a relationship in the first place? That’s like purposely getting your cock caught in your zipper so you don’t have to worry about losing your jeans. Instead, wear your jeans a couple of times, get them dirty and sweaty then take them off and find a new pair. Chances are the other pair will turn up again, clean and ready to chafe your cock again. If you can’t find a new pair, go buy a new pair. Just make sure that if you go out to buy a new pair you buy a pair that fits…and doesn’t have herpes. Eventually, you’ll realize that you’re destined to live sitting around without any pants, shouting at solicitors and eating Cheese Whiz straight from the aerosol can and that it’s the most comfortable thing you’ll ever experience. Fuck pants. Holy shit, that’s probably the best simile ever created. Eat my shit, Shakespeare.

Why does my boyfriend treat me like a slut?

…she asked after she jumped off my dick and wiped my sweat and man juices off her face. Any woman that even ponders asking this probably needs a cudgel in the vulva for being just a dense sack of horse shit. If your idea of a first date is dinner and a movie followed by violent ass sex, email me. You’re still going to be considered a skanky slam pig but hey, I’m not one to judge. All seriousness aside, the general rule of thumb is if you’re willing to give dudes shit dick on the first date, you’re destined to dance around poles and huff meth until you’re capable of gumming all the penis that enters your face hole. It’s one thing for you to nibble on a couple different kinds of meat to see what your taste fancy is, but nobody likes the bitch who’s seen more salami than a Ritz cracker on New Year’s Eve. And since your boyfriend is the biggest nobody I’ve ever met, you two are a match made in heaven. Maybe if you didn’t agree to be double penetrated in a filthy community dorm shower, guys wouldn’t treat you like the drainage ditch of dick you are. Boy, what a novel idea.

I kissed a guy but I don’t really like him. LOL!1 Now what?

Well, with any luck, now you get chlamydia. Or lupus. Take your pick. And if I ever, ever hear a girl say “lol” in a real time, face to face conversation again, her jaw is going to loll from her face after I smack it with my cock at velocities of Mach 8 and greater. Anyway, ideally, you’d give up the front of a sweet innocent virgin and let those labia sag as loose as they naturally should. It’s the equivalent of a guy sucking his gut in; we know your vagina hangs looser than Fubu, so there’s no real reason to try and hide it. Plus the guy probably didn’t like you much anyway. Mostly because you have more fungal rings around your snatch than most of the Redwood Forest. But hey, keep it up and you’ll be working as a fluffer until your timely, three eight-balls and an assful of dick induced death at the tender age of one year from now.

My girlfriend wants me to trim my pubes. Should I do it?

The only time I ever want to hear the words “my pubes” coming from a guy’s mouth is in the following sentence: “My pubes will not be the topic of discussion in this or any subsequent sentences from now until eternity.” I’m probably the worst person to ask on this topic. I have pubes longer than my cock. This one time I got crabs and instead of shaving my manly underbrush, I just willed the crabs to melt. Under no circumstances should anything razor blade related be permitted to enter the general circumference of the male genitalia. Females, however, are more than welcome to trim the hedges. I like the landing strip personally, but I will spring at my name and/or likeness in the bush. And if you’re a red head, I expect any likeness of me in your bush to provide me with a set of laws and a way out of the desert for God’s people.

Seriously, maybe if you all stopped asking me why your relationships don’t work and started actively not sucking, you’d be in better shape. But that’s like asking a pig not to roll around in its own shit. If any of you sad sacks found this advice helpful, strap in for the life long ride of loneliness and masturbation. Then again, I guess it’s unnecessary to strap in for a ride you’ve been on for years straight.

-People asked hobos for vasectomies and deep fried their dicks after taking all of my advice.

The other day, I was sitting around watching porn when my friend asked me if I wanted to go to a party. My first reaction was to tuck my cock back into my pants, but in a rush I accidentally did a back flip and uppercutted him in the jaw with my penis. After he had his jaw set back into place with a mighty forearm shiver for interrupting my flog the flounder marathon, I mixed into a 10 gallon jug some pure Missouri moonshine and the “where are my parents” queries of orphans. After I willed the concoction into my stomach with my eyeballs, I looked my friend straight in the face and told him I’d rather motorboat Jack Black’s sweaty man tits than go to a party. Then my neighbor came into my room and asked what all the hub-bub was so I stapled his scrotum to his taint. No one says hub-bub in my presence without having his scrotum stapled to his taint.

I settled down a little bit and gave my friend a chance to recover. Since a Rigolega forearm shiver takes approximately 15 years of freezing cold hypothermic-state inducing injections from which to recover, I decided to sit down and play Resident Evil 4 in my underwear. Holy shit I love playing video games in my underwear. And farting. Especially when my farts smell like Chinese food. There’s no more satisfying feeling than that other than getting blown while taking a shit. Some people call it gross, I call it a Tuesday evening. I beat the entire game twice in four minutes and basked in self-satisfaction and my own butt musk before a small group of people gathered in my doorway. They asked if I was going to the party and I responded with a fart so heavy that the entire room began to sag under its density. The survivors continued to prod at me with queries so I indulged them and stood up. I immediately hunched over from the weight of my nuts crashing to the floor and almost threw out my back and by threw out my back I mean got blown by three women at once and by almost I mean fuck you. As everyone began to file out of my room the 10 gallons of alcohol and orphan queries began to hit me, so I ran ahead and led the group. I didn’t know where the party was, so I mentally teleported the house at which it was held to my proximity. The house fell on a group of confrontational evangelists that happened to be standing there.

I went into the house and proceeded to spring wood so sizable that a National Park ranger filled out a form designating my crotch as national attraction, pushing the count up to 17 such designations. A bunch of people were standing around a keg pumping Pabst into solo cups. Being a real man, I shotgunned the entire keg by myself and crushed it on my forehead. Women swooned and men shat their pants. Disappointed in the lack of bourbon in the room, I went into another room where people were dancing to shitty club tracks. One guy in a striped shirt with a popped collar flailed his hand in the air and shouted the word yeah several times like he was fucking Paul Wall. I shoved my foot so far up his ass that the dog shit on the bottom of my boots caked his teeth. Then one of his friends challenged me to a fight, so I did what I always do when I’m challenged to a fight: I glared at him until his penis disintegrated into a crotch vortex. I was immediately doused in the moisture of freshly creamed panties and not wanting to catch herpes from the skanktitude of the room, proceeded to headbutt through a wall to create an exit. The entire second floor came crashing down from my effort as I accidentally destroyed a load bearing beam and by accidentally I mean just because I fucking can.

When I got back to my room, a girl was waiting for me naked grilling an entire ox on a spit. She was having a hard time rotating the carcass, so I yelled at her because I only eat raw meat. My shouting was so immense that my shirt tore away from my body and suffocated a group of petitioners begging me to end violence. Then I brought the ox back to life and fist fought it. After I killed it a second time, I ate it in two bites, since my first bite was interrupted when I answered a call from another friend who was at the party. He said he needed bail money because the party had gotten broken up due noise complaints and he was being held for damage to a public building. I grunted mightily and finished my feast. Then the girl in my room asked me if I would cuddle with her in return for bringing me my snack. I laughed so hard I came.

-I fucking hate parties.

Every so often, there is an event that occurs that can hardly be described without the use of sesquipedalian words so monumental that the average ignoramus reading this web page is forced to shit his pants in agony over his inability to comprehend the magnificence of the event. While any day I wake up and swing my massive nuts out of my bed of hot sauce drenched scorpions conforms to such an event, it just so happens that there was a gathering which garnered the same sort of awe inspiring jaw droppage recently. Thus, I, the Great Rigolega, deemed it necessary to impart the myth of the aforementioned event, subsequently known as Pat-a-palooza.

But since the audience that reads this page can hardly elevate its own fly without getting its collective cock caught in its zipper, let alone elevate its vocabulary to a level slightly higher than the average hobo, allow me reiterate (that means re-say it with smaller words, you morons): Pat-a-palooza was the fucking tits.

Before you mistake Pat-a-palooza for the aural holocaust that is Lollapalooza, let me reassure you that the former was more tantalizing for the senses than Turkish bathhouse whereas the latter is a constant reminder why the human race is doomed to a lifetime of suckage. I stumbled into Pat-a-palooza while walking around without a shirt, drinking 95% alcohol by volume whiskey mixed with the sweat and tears of virgins and children. The first thing I noted were two chums of mine, Pedey and DaltonB standing on the porch of my buddy DTrain’s house. When I asked them in a deep, bowel moving grunt, what they were doing there DaltonB spat a stream of pure American tobacco and grunted back: “Bouncing.” Then, from out of nowhere, Pedey roundhouse kicked some asshole in a pink shirt through a picture window and proceeded to kick the shit out of him. Then he grabbed some chick’s tits. Her boyfriend got pissed, so Pedey ripped his throat out. Then he threw the guy up in the air and teabagged him across the street into a group of elderly power walkers. He then proceeded to recite the three rules of bouncing from Road House (which is the best movie about bouncing and shit kicking this side of the Mason-Dixon line). Pedey successfully completed introduction to ass-kicking within the first 30 seconds of my arrival. After he brushed himself off and lit a fat cigar, he turned to me and said, “So will you put this on your web page? Huh? Please? That was so worthy of it.” I shook my head in disappointment and proceeded into the backyard. I dropped my goblet of children’s tears in the shock of what I saw.

No, it wasn’t plethora of drunk, hot chicks rubbing their tits on anything with a pulse; it wasn’t the eight kegs sitting out on the deck, begging to be tapped; nor was it the over-the-hill classic rock cover band playing on the lawn. While all of these were impressive in their own right, the thing that made me drop my testicle enhancing elixir was the presence of a real life, stinky and sloppy bum. “Holy shit! A bum!” I proceeded to shout, shaking him by the shoulders and demanding he regale me with tales of his bummery. People noticed the bum and started taking pictures with him. One guy rode him like a horse. Three people fought the bum. But all he did was stand there, smoking his tightly rolled cigarette, bobbing his head to the band and, as all bums do, pissing himself. After a short time, I got bored with the bum, so Pedey threw him out in an impressive manner. It gave me a mild but not life-threatening boner. I nodded in approval. Pedey nodded back and, lighting four cigarettes at once like a real man, he spat and said “Come on dude, how awesome was that? You definitely have to put that on your site.” Again, I shook my head and walked away.

After a few hours of sitting around, flexing my massive pecs and springing critical wood at hot chicks, I joined DaltonB on the front porch to discuss the finer points of anal sex with three chicks at once. While in the midst of a discussion concerning the morality of “Ass-to-Mouth Economics,” we noticed a guy stumble out of the alley. He couldn’t walk on his own and was bleeding profusely from the head. He fell down and began puking all over the lawn, getting vomit in his head wound. Now, I did what any sane human being would do in this situation: I laughed until I sharted. DaltonB, being a good bouncer, picked him up by the scruff of his neck and threw him through an oncoming car’s windshield and told the driver to “drive until he didn’t have any gas left.” No one messes with DaltonB, primarily because he’s 6′4″, 350 pounds of ass kickery, which is why it took three chick to blow him after this display of manliness. I retired to the backyard once more and met up with my friend TheSister and her friends TheMarried and TheEngaged. TheSister was being hit on by several guys, all of whom retreated when I shot them optical impetus; my glare is the substance of children’s nightmares. However, there was one doughy guy who kept up his (sorry excuse for) game. Figuring he could do no more harm than chafing his pud when he went to rub one out in his parents’ basement later that night, I didn’t interfere. Gentleman, a piece of advice: if you feel awkward around a woman and think she’s not interested in you, you’re right. She’s interested in me, so go jump nose first in the trough. You might pick up a pig there.

After an hour of shooting the shit with TheSister, I walked around to continue my conversation with DaltonB. However, he and Pedey were in the midst of an argument with some prick and a few girls who wanted their money back because they “weren’t drinking.” Pussies. Like real men, DaltonB and Pedey were having none of it and drop kicked the prick through a brick wall. Then they titty slapped the girls into orgasm, and they left. I nodded my approval once more. Pedey flexed a gigantic biceps and looked at me with a glare. As he opened his mouth I said, “Don’t. Listening to you is like listening to a deaf girl masturbate.” He nodded. I nodded. Then he fucked a deaf chick.

After this display of bouncing that would give The Swayze a woody, DaltonB was relieved from his post and went home to bang six chicks at a time (I assume). After a couple more hours of maneuvering my boner through the throng of hot chicks and making sure TheEngaged wasn’t raped by a scum, a fight broke out. I looked for the bum, but he was long gone. As it turned out, two brothers started throwing punches at TheSister’s cousin. Naturally, they had their asses handed to them because while everyone was flexing his beer muscles, I was throwing javelins through torsos. Pools of vomit and blood gathered on the sidewalk while drunk women rubbed cocoa butter on my triceps. I commanded that they gather me a goblet of virgin tears and even with all the crying they did over their amazement of my presence, not one could drop a virgin tear in my goblet. Cunts.

Ten minutes after my javelin throwing spectacle, officers of the law showed up, firing bullets wildly and for no reason. I deflected the bullets with my nuts, but a few ricocheted off my pubes and found their way into anyone with a popped collar. TheSister, TheMarried and TheEngaged and I walked out and began the trek back to TheSister’s house. About a block from her house, we noticed we were being followed by someone in a gold sedan. Nothing screams “I rape strangers” like a gold sedan. The girls were getting nervous, but I remained calm. As he rolled through the alleyway where TheMarried’s car was parked, the sedan crept towards us. They all piled into the car and I stood out in front of it. Hand on my zipper, I was prepared to whip out my nuts and crush the sedan with the force of a thousand gang rapes. But before I could, the sedan elevated and was tossed fifty feet away, where it exploded into a towering inferno. I turned and saw Pedey standing there. I nodded in approval and he said, “Dude, when you put that on your website, make sure you tell them how awesome it was that I threw that car.” I nodded as I ESPed him a vasectomy.

In short, Pat-a-palooza was an arousing success. Nothing can ruin anything that has eight kegs, hot drunk chicks, Road House-esque bouncers and Rigolega’s huge nuts all in one. Not even the homeless.

-Masturbating deaf girls moaned when they heard…erm…signed about Pat-a-palooza.