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I Can Masturbate Through Anything
By: Russ Slayter

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the smartest, most attractive or talented person on the planet, but I’m not stupid, altogether ugly or completely bereft of ability, either. For instance, I’m an awesome parallel parker, and I can masturbate through practically anything.

It’s true. I can, and I am, which, contrary to what you might be thinking, IS a pretty big deal considering how cruel and depressing the world can be, with so many of its 6 billion inhabitants running around like loons, raping, murdering and peeing on each other, sometimes over something as trivial as one of the planet’s dwindling number of convenient parking spots.

Take the genocide that went down in Rwanda back in 1994. 800,000 men, women and children were slaughtered within three months by their fellow countrymen merely because their ancestors hailed from the north instead of the west. Really horrible, heinous stuff. I was watching a movie about it a couple weeks ago called Hotel Rwanda that was full of old women and babies getting shot and chopped up with machetes and all that, but then looking at Don Cheadle reminded me of his character in Boogie Nights and how he couldn’t get a loan from the bank to start his stereo business because he was in porn, which made me think of tits and lesbians, and before I knew it, my hand was down my pants.

That Schindler's List was pretty depressing too. And long. I tossed three loads before the war was even over.

Apparently I'm not a very sensitive person. For instance, just last night as I was masturbating before going to sleep (a nightly ritual comparable to the final ceremonies of the Olympic Games), and, immersed in an imaginary parallel universe populated by lingerie model caliber corporate office managers who evaluate job candidates first and foremost on their ability to give them hot doggy-style fucks over the tops of their mahogany desks, the distinct commotion of a domestic dispute between the couple that lives next door began permeating the common wall that separates our apartments. It sounded bad. The woman was screaming and bawling, "It wasn't me" this, and ,"Put that thing down" that, but it didn't really phase me, and by the time I finished, the noises had stopped. I don't know, maybe the guy killed her.

Seriously, if I lived in Pompei back when that Mt. Vesuvius exploded, I'd be the plaster cast of the guy with his hand around his wiener.

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