Monday, March 2, 2015

For Real This Time

This is my last blogger post.  Not my last post, just my last post here.  At least for a while.  It's been a great ride but google has basically just let blogger sit here and it's a damn shame.  The built in networking used to be great.  Click the next blog button at the top, if you find a blog that's been updated within the last 5 years, go buy a lotto ticket because it's your lucky day.

I may come back one day but it would take Google giving a damn and since that doesn't seem likely, so I'll be at https://therealrantingmonkey.wordpress.com/.  Thanks for reading.


Sunday, March 1, 2015

Judgment Day

The internet got me again.  I was sitting here, reading the news, or at least what passes for news these days, when I came across an article titled Why I'm Keeping My Pregnancy A Secret From Work As Long As I Can.  That's a titillating title.  I wanted to know why she was keeping pregnancy a secret from work for as long as she could!  So, I clicked the link.

When will I learn?

I won't lie to you.  I did not read the whole article.  I couldn't.  I got distracted by the story of how this woman got knocked up.  She took her vagina on a world tour and on one leg of the trip she took a guy she'd just met back to her place.  She didn't plan on having sex with Ole Whatshisname but one thing led to another and bam, conception.  She didn't think she'd would get pregnant, she knew her cycle and took a morning after pill but Ole Whatshisname has some persistent sperm.

By the way, she's not keeping the pregnancy a secret for fear of being judged a slut for letting guys she doesn't know paint her insides with their penis primer.

Let's stop for a moment and discuss something that is important to know as you continue reading.  I do judge this woman but not for being a slut.  Any comments you read here referring to her being a slut, whore, STD breeding ground, or any other variation on that theme are jokes based on facts but I really don't judge her for it.  I don't know her and could honestly not care less how she pools these guy's resources.

What I judge her for is telling everyone about it, including her soon to be born daughter.  Like her inevitable herpes, the internet is forever.

Back to our story.

Slutty McDrippy isn't worried she'll be judged for getting knocked up by a stranger.  Oh no, she's afraid she will get fired for being pregnant.  That sounds scary but she also tells us that when she took the free lance job, she told them she wouldn't be able to commit past March.  So...she's afraid of getting fired from a job she wasn't planning on staying at.  And that's where I stopped reading the story.  I did skim more, she judges people so she think they will judge her, though that's not how she puts it.  She's a modern day feminist that thinks the worst consequence of sex is a baby and she's not going to let the open sores on her whistling twat tell her otherwise.

Anyway, I'm reading the comments on the story and I came across one from an anonymous poster that said, and I'm paraphrasing because I'm too lazy to find it again and paste it, I take back what I said, after reading her other work, please let someone else raise this child.

That's even more titillating than the title that pulled me into all this nonsense.  I wanted to know what about her other work would lead to such a comment!  So, I clicked on the name of the author to read her other work.

When will I learn?

The author only has one other published work.  What It's Like To Plan Your Own Gang Bang.

Don't worry, she thought it through, she knew she'd want to avoid running into any of the gang bang participants in an elevator and suffering through that awkward "hey, didn't I once fuck you in the ass" moment.  Our globe trotting skank tells us the story of how she took a trip to Germany, popped over to Ireland to let 4 strangers go round her world.  And she only got a little cum in her eye.  Score!

Once again, I do not care what you do with your body as long as everyone involved is a consenting adult.  I don't want you to tell me how to get my freak on, I'm not going to tell you how to get your freak on.  There is one exception to that rule.  If you tell the whole fucking world about how you're fucking the whole world, I'm gonna have a word or two to say.

Let's take the issues here one at a time.

First, do not write about how you conceived your child by fucking some guy you knew less time than it takes me to drive to work.  Hell, don't write about how you conceived your child at all.  Your child may one day google your stupid ass and that's not something they need, or want, to read.  Yes, Crotch-a-lot here may have used a pen name but that doesn't mean her daughter will never find out what her pen name was and go searching to find out what mommy wrote.

Next, pregnancy is not the worst thing that can happen to you if you have unprotected sex.  You're going to wake up with weeds in your lady garden if you keep letting every horticulturist that comes by fertilize your flower.  You're gonna get a drip.  And then your nasty drip will become their nasty drip.  Oh sure, it makes for a funny story when you have to tell him, "no silly, that's not my clitoris, that's a genital wart," but it really is better not to be able to play "is this a toad or a twat" with pictures of your pussy.

Finally, there is a difference between having a healthy sexual appetite and being proud of being a full blown cum dumpster.  If you've ever had to go to another country to avoid running into strangers that may have had their dick in your ass, you're the latter.  And that's ok, no need to be ashamed of that.  But, it's also not something to be so proud of that you'd put it out there for the world to read. 

Thursday, February 26, 2015

Another Monkey PSA

Ladies, we need to talk.  You women have got to stop faking it.

I'm not talking about orgasms.  While I have written of the downside of faking orgasms before, it has no bearing on my life.  If you want to pretend that your lady garden is quivering uncontrollably from the half assed sideway fuck you're in the middle of suffering through, more power to ya.  It has no impact on me.  That's between you and the man you're lying to...and whomever he fucks wrong after you get tired of him.

No, what I am talking about is far more sinister, mainly because I have to suffer because of it.  Stop laughing at shit men say and do that isn't funny. 

The issues with faking a laugh are the same issues with faking an orgasm, you aren't really satisfied and you're reinforcing bad behavior, but it has the added bonus of annoying the fuck out of me.

I love to hear women laugh.  90% of the shit I say is to try and make my wife laugh.  I hope other people laugh along but her opinion of me is the one that matters and I desperately want her approval.  This woman is a tough audience.  Things that make other people fall out of their chairs might elicit a grin and a head shake from her.  She's not entirely unimpressed by me but she's mostly unimpressed by me.

Don't worry, I can take it.  Lesser men would have long since taken their own lives or joined a monastery or decided to give gay life a try.  Me?  Well, I am funnier because she makes me work for even the slightest hint of a giggle.  You folks reap the rewards of my bruised ego.

I really wish more women were like my wife.  Not towards me.  I need your affirmations to keep me going when she's staring at me with that judgmental "what the hell is he doing now" stare my escapades provoke.

Ok, I'll stop with the pity party.  She really doesn't laugh at me very often and it really does make me try harder to be funny and you really do benefit from how hard she is to impress but I know I'm funny and it makes it that much more rewarding when I do make her crack up.

If you women would stop laughing at shit that isn't funny, guys would either try harder and actually be funny or they'd shut the fuck up.  Either outcome is preferable to the situation I was in a few days ago where I  wanted to test my theory that it is indeed possible to slap the fucking stupid out of someone.  In this case, a guy trying to be funny who was being egged on by women who couldn't have been more obviously faking their laughter if they had actually stated, "I'm going to fake laugh now." If it had gone on much longer, I fear one of us would have ended up in the emergency room, either him with my foot up his ass or me from the stress induced stroke I was working on.

Ladies, I know men like it when you laugh at their jokes but please, I'm begging here, if it isn't funny, don't laugh.  You could save a life. 


Saturday, February 21, 2015

Forest of Trees

This is not the post I had planned on writing.  I don't remember what I was going to write but, trust me, you'd have laughed your asses off.  Instead, you get a more serious piece on compassion and we once again have Josie to thank for the subject matter.  What subject matter? I'm glad you asked.

There is a whole bunch of shit I do not care about.  It's not just out of sight, out of mind, it's that I could not give less of a fuck about whatever your cause is if I was being paid to.  Frankly, I think there are too many causes out there and a whole bunch of them are nothing but bullshit.  Bored people claim a cause and want others to care so they can feel better about the horrible shits they are most of the time.

Now, if you're new around here, this is a good spot to stop and tell you that Josie's inspiration doesn't necessarily inspire a direct response or rebuttal to what she wrote.  I'm not arguing with what she said.  I quite agree with her.  She just has a way of saying something that grabs my mind which then takes it in random, and often entirely unrelated, directions.  Just throwing that out there to avoid any confusion you might be feeling after reading her post and my opening.  Back to my point.... 

If you have a cause, I'm happy for you.  I hope you find a way to solve whatever problem you think needs fixing.  Truthfully, I hope people do change the world.  There is a lot in this world that needs change. It's just that, sometimes, I think we lose the trees for the forest.  No, I didn't quote that wrong.  People get so desperate to find meaning by solving global problems they forget what a little local compassion can do.

For me, compassion is closer to home.  It's knowing a friend is struggling and even though I haven't slept in 36 hours, placing a phone call and doing everything I can to make them laugh and take their mind off their problems for a little while.  It's telling someone a hard truth they already know but don't want to accept.  It's reminding someone that isn't having a bad day that I am happy they're alive, making an ok day even better is preemptive compassion.  
 
For me, compassion is it's own cause.  I'm not out to save the world.  That job is above my pay grade.  I'd much rather be known as the guy you want to call when you're feeling down than the guy that saved the whales or stopped spotted owls from being wiped out.  Don't give up your causes because people like me don't care.  Just remember that the passion you have for big change could make a world of difference to those around you if you narrowed your focus. 


Tuesday, February 17, 2015

The Monkey Mind

I have often been asked how I think up the things I write and say.  I won't lie to you, there are times when I have no fucking idea.  I'm sitting their minding my own business and my mind says, "Hey, Frank, deal with this shit."  These moments are as surprising to me as they are to anyone that may be sitting around me when they happen.

Then there are times when I can trace the entire life cycle of a thought.  Again, I'm not going to lie to you, I'm still surprised by the twists and turns along the path to the final thought but I at least know where it came from.

And so it was today when someone asked where I came up with something I wrote on Facebook.  Since this was one of the times I could follow the life of a Monkey thought, we're going to trace it from start to finish.

A friend had a rough day.  After work, I sent her a message asking if her night had gotten better.  She replied that she had been to the gym and talked to a cute boy and that her day was indeed looking up.  I sent back, "we have very different tastes."

I talk to a cute man every day as I talk to myself constantly, both internally and out loud as though there was another me there.  I talk to and answer myself.  Sometimes, I even argue, myself can be a stubborn bastard.  The talking to myself is important, it's in these moments that these thoughts are fleshed out.  I began to wonder what it would take for a day at the gym to make me happy.  I have exercised to the point of that euphoric feeling and I did like it but not enough to ever do it on purpose.

"What would it take for me to enjoy the gym?"

"I think people exercise there."

"Dear lord, why?"

"Exercise isn't all bad."

"Bullshit."

"No, don't you remember, we read that sex is like the best exercise you can do."

"Of course it is, even if it didn't burn a single calorie, it'd still be the best one."

From there I spent about half an hour imagining having sex at a gym, on the weight bench, hanging from a pull up bar upside down covered in whipped cream, and on a yoga ball.  Even in my imagination, that last one hurt.  Imaginary me has a sore hip, a strained knee, a pulled groin, and a limp.  The imaginary doctors expect a full recovery but it's going to be a long road.

"I need an imaginary personal trainer or I'm gonna end up imaginary crippled."

"Wouldn't that kind of personal trainer be a prostitute?"

"I wonder if they could get away with that legally..."

All of that brought us the final finished Facebook post.



I keep reading that sex is among the best exercises you can do. Even if there were no science behind it, that would still be true unless you're doing it all wrong.

Consequently, I think prostitutes should start calling themselves personal trainers to avoid legal entanglements.


And that is how I come up with this shit.