Weekly Hypothetical – For The Love Of God People, Stop Being So Twisted!
During the course of an average week, I get anywhere from 70 to 100 emails of which roughly 10% are hypothetical questions in need of answering. (The other 90% are advertisements for Peruvian fetish porn involving yaks, which are 100% unsolicited, I swear.) Without fail, one of those emails contains a question so foul, so depraved, so incredibly retarded, that I weep for mankind. For instance, this week I received an email which asked, “If you had to go through life with genitals on your forehead, which would you pick: The pole or the hole?”
Honestly, what kind of question is that? And if the question itself wasn’t bad enough, here’s what’s worse: I spent the better part of the week answering the question in my head, even though the more you think about it, the more disgusting it gets. Pretty soon these thoughts start actively getting in the way of my day to day activities.
Wife: Zooey Deschanel, do you think she’s pretty?
Me: She’s ok. (to self) I’d never be able to pull that off if I was sporting forehead wood.
Wife: Why do you keep touching your forehead? It’s like you’re checking for something.
Me: I don’t know… Oh, gross, I just realized that it’s not just the pole versus the hole. If you went with the pole, you’d be getting the franks AND the beans. Holy shit, it’d be like teabagging your own nose every step you took.
Wife: WHAT?!? Are you on mushrooms or something?
Me: Let me ask you this, how weird is it for someone to wear a bandana on their forehead on a constant basis? I mean, Bret Michaels does it and… HOLY SHIT! Bret Michaels is probably sporting a forehead vag!
Wife: I’m going to bed.
This I don’t need. So from now on I’m going to have to ask that any future hypothetical questions pass the Larry Flynt test. If your question is so foul that it makes Larry Flynt cry, I don’t want to receive it.
On to this week’s question which comes from Pish Posh, who is a wonderful person because she doesn’t make me think of shit like forehead herpes. She asks:
If you had the choice between going back in time and being a rockstar of your choice – or staying in this life and not having to work anymore, which would you choose?
Before I answer this question, Pish, I need to clarify something for the benefit of those readers who happen to be my wife: When someone asks me whether or not I would use a time machine, or travel to a far-flung planet, or any other activity that requires me to leave my wife and kids, IT IS NOT A SERIOUS QUESTION. Of course I would never leave my wife and my three adorable kids. They are the light of my life, the reason I get up in the morning, the loving force behind my every breath.
That having been said, I would so fucking totally be Robert Plant. I mean, being me but never having to work again? Fuck that, I can be Robert Plant and never have to work again, just work when I feel like being worshipped like a Golden God and swimming in an ocean of poon. And to be Robert Plant in the 70’s? After birth control but before herpes and AIDS? I’d be getting so much trim, it’d be like that old joke:
Q. I’ve started smoking after sex. What should I do?
A. Use lube.
Now I know some people would rather be other rock stars, but really, Robert Plant is the way to go here. Here’s a rundown of his competition:
Any of the Beatles: John – Dead. George – Dead. Paul – Owes $50 million to gimpy ex-wife. Ringo – Still pestering me to let him sleep on my couch.
Any of the Rolling Stones: Mick Jagger – Moonlights as the Crypt Keeper. Keith Richards – I’m pretty sure he’s dead. The rest of them – Ummm, aren’t they animatronic, like the weasels and whatnot at Chuck E. Cheese?
Elvis: Dead and probably still fat.
Michael Jackson: Either dead or living the life of a recluse with Jim Morrison, Elvis, and Bubbles the Chimp on a UFO, which is probably even more irritating than it sounds.
So looking at Robert Plant’s life right now, I’d say he’s got a huge leg up on his competition (especially on Heather Mills, ZING!).
Holy shit, my 75 year old mother just called, and you have no idea how hard it is to concentrate on fornicating rock stars, legless jokes, and forehead junk when you’re talking to your mom. Where were we? Oh yeah, I’d totally go with Robert Plant. As long as he wasn’t sporting a facial scrotum.
See? This is what I’m talking about with the weekly hypothetical.
Anyway, I believe that the Peruvian fetish porn is unsolicited, and probably spam from Nigeria, because if it was real Peruvian fetish porn that you requested, it would involve alpacas. Silly Nigerian spammers.
Also, I don’t know if it’s just too early, or what, but I had to think about the meaning of the gross hypothetical for a moment before it sunk in – pole of hole? For Pete’s sake.
And finally, does anyone else feel like DOD is taunting us with his perpetual comment number one-idness on Bloggess?
If you were on Twitter, you’d see the “First!” comments I make to Juice.
When a child is born with ambiguous genitalia the doctors will snip off the enlarged clitoris/small penis because “its easier to dig a hole than build a pole” thus removing any inconvenient ambiguity for the parents and any sexual pleasure for the rest of the child’s life.
And yes the perpetual numero uno is pretty astounding! whiskey tango foxtrot, man!
I really don’t understand why women think Mick Jagger is sexy. He’s totally the cryptkeeper.
Mick Jagger looks like roughly half of the beef jerky at my local convenience store, only paler.
In my day the ONLY way to say anything to a sleeping friend was with Sharpies. We had all the colors in case clowns or unicorns or Hello Kitties were necessary.
Drawing dicks would have just been rude, and anything lava would remove was a weak and unfriendly gesture to your good buddies.
Bonus points for workdays; it really confined the drinking to weekends, and kept people in their beds with the doors locked, instead of puking and sweating on my couch.
In conclusion, Sharpies. Endorsement of the Week.
Wait, the topic was headdresses, or something, right?
One time we went to town on a passed out amigo who had a history of passing out early. The previous time, we fucking paper mache’d his head, dried it with a blow drier, and then laughed our asses off as he stumbled around clawing at his face, his ears full of barbecue sauce.
This time we used permanent paint markers (the kind with the spray paint shake-em-up ball in side). and drew all over his face. In the morning he saw the result, called us assholes, and went to shower off. When he came out he told us that he was going to IHOP for breakfast and asked if we wanted to come.
We had a hard time keeping a straight face because we noticed that somehow, he’d missed a giant cock on his neck, spurting into his ear. “No, no, you go ahead.” He came back 45 minutes later. “YOU GUYS ARE FUCKING DICKS!!!”
hm, Being a Unicorn over spending a lifetime in fear of skull faulkers??? … Pole of course! Who doesn’t want to be a Faulking Unicorn?
Yeah, but then you’d walk around smelling your balls all the time. There are no winners in this game. None.
I’m pretty sure the only questions that make Larry Flynt cry are about puppies and rainbows. He’s very sensitive.
I agree with Pish: Mick Jagger = beyond creepy. Unless of course you are into fucking tweekers who probably go by the nickname ‘scabby sac’ behind closed doors.
You know scabby sac too?!?!
Great…now I can’t get head herpies out of my head.
And yes…and to have Rob’s voice too? That voice could make angels cry 😀