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.