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Making Pork Even More Un-Kosher, Japanese Food Never Tasted so Good.
Posted in From The Mind Of Derrick on Oct 01, 2007 at 7:00 AM
Current Mood: crazy

I’m not going to criticize anyone for meat-eating or bestiality. Meat is delicious, and no hippie can ever convince me to part with it. But I also recognize that once I’ve allowed the morality of eating dead animals, I have to concede the morality of fucking live ones. After all, would you rather be fucked, or eaten? Exactly.

As the famous philosopher Peter Singer put it, “We copulate, as animals do. They have penises and vaginas, as we do, and the fact that the vagina of a calf can be sexually satisfying to a man shows how similar these organs are.”

Give the man some credit. I’m not about to put my penis anywhere near a calf vagina, but I also understand how lonely it gets in parts of, say, Iowa. According to the most authoritative sex survey, 8% of men and 3.5% of women have been lonely enough to mount, or be mounted by, one of our animal cousins at least once. Fucking, like eating, is a natural drive.

But you know where I draw the line? Fucking, then eating. Bioethicist Leon Kass has spoken of “the wisdom of repugnance” — which means, in layman’s terms, that if something sounds fucking disgusting, it is probably fucking wrong. And “fucking wrong” is exactly the phrase that jumped to mind when I read an article called “The Cook, the Beast, the Vice and its Lover” in a Japanese newspaper:

A disgusting and twisted restaurant in the Tokyo entertainment district of Roppongi is enticing warped rich folk with the opportunity to figuratively have their cake and eat it, too — with animals, according to Jitsuwa Knuckles. [Btw, awesomest reporter name ever.]

Roppongi's bestiality restaurant is being regarded by its main nouveau riche patronage of young company presidents and venture capitalists as a decadent practice only possible among the wealthy.

An informer named only M tells the paper how she was invited into the basement restaurant by a wealthy lawyer:

“After we got into the main restaurant, an employee escorted us down to the basement,” M says. “The walls were pitch black and the floor covered in a blood red carpet, so I guess the place must be a refurbished S&M club.”

Once the customer feels prepared, they will be presented with beast of their choice. In the lawyer's case, it was a sow.

Once the lawyer had finished porking the pig, the couple returned to the first floor and sat at a table to dine. M says she was totally shocked when staff members carried in roast pork — made of the same sow the lawyer had earlier been with.

“I was about to vomit,” M says. “It was the same pig that had been squealing just moments before. Now, it had been roasted whole. I managed to avoid eating it by only having salad.”

I don’t even know what to say. I’m not even going to make the mandatory “porking your pork” joke. I can only imagine that a restaurant like that provides the ultimate thrill in sadism, because even if you enjoy physically hurting someone during sex, even if you plan on killing them afterwards and dumping them in the river, it’s not very often that you get to lean over and snarl into the ear of your unwilling partner: “Take it, bitch — and afterwards, I’m going to fucking eat you. With a side of couscousssssssss.” Maybe it sounds sexier in Japanese.

I’m just going to throw this out there: Japan is the country that has given us tentacle-rape porn, used-schoolgirl-panty vending machines, and Hello Kitty. It is also, incidentally, the only country that has ever suffered nuclear warfare.

Which leads me to what I’m going to call Derrick’s Law of International Relations. Either nuke a country off the face of the Earth, rendering it a permanently uninhabitable, radiation-strewn wasteland — or don’t even bother trying.

But do not — do not — conduct half-assed nuclear war. In all of human history, there is a 100% correlation between half-assed nuclear war and disgusting sexuality (including bestiality restaurants). When you pussy out of nuclear destruction, you’re not only victimizing the people of your target nation. You’re victimizing everyone else who’s forced to hear about the pork-fucking exploits of those people’s descendants for the next century.

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Life Is a Game
Posted in From The Mind Of Derrick on Sep 04, 2007 at 5:43 AM
Current Mood: bitter

I'm living so far beyond my income that we may almost be said to be living apart.

Somewhere on this globe, every ten seconds, there is a woman giving birth to a child. She must be found and stopped.

Join the army, see the world, meet interesting people, and kill them.

I don't deserve this award, but I have arthritis and I don't deserve that either.

When I was born I was so surprised I didn't talk for a year and a half.

Too bad the only people who know how to run the country are busy driving cabs and cutting hair.

A bank is a place that will lend you money if you can prove that you don't need it.

If your parents never had children, chances are you won't, either.

You can only be young once. But you can always be immature.

I told my psychiatrist that everyone hates me. He said I was being ridiculous - everyone hasn't met me yet.

Don't you wish there were a knob on the TV to turn up the intelligence? There's one marked 'Brightness', but it doesn't work.

If God wanted us to fly, He would have given us tickets.

Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you walk into an open sewer and die.

The difference between man and animals is that we don't use our tongue to clean our genitals.

A vegetarian is a person who won't eat anything that can have children.

I Don't Know Whether To Kill Myself Or Go Bowling.

Reagan won because he ran against Jimmy Carter. Had he run unopposed he would have lost.

Life is a game, whoever has the most money at the end wins.

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Wanna Be A Monk?
Posted in From The Mind Of Derrick on Sep 03, 2007 at 11:26 AM
Current Mood: silly

A man is driving down the road and breaks down near a
monastery. He goes to the monastery, knocks on the door, and
says, "My car broke down. Do you think I could stay the
night?"

The monks graciously accept him, feed him dinner, even fix
his car.

As the man tries to fall asleep, he hears a strange sound.

The next morning, he asks the monks what the sound was, but
they say, "We can`t tell you. You`re not a monk."

The man is disappointed but thanks them anyway and goes
about His merry way.

Some years later, the same man breaks down in front of the
same monastery. The monks accept him, feed him, even fix his
car. That night, he hears the same strange noise that he had
heard years earlier.

The next morning, he asks what it is, but the monks reply,
"We can`t tell you. You`re not a monk."

The man says, "All right, all right. I`m *dying* to know.
If the only way I can find out what that sound was is to
become a monk, how do I become a monk?"
The monks reply, "You must travel the Earth and tell us how
many blades of grass there are and the exact number of sand
pebbles. When you find these numbers, you will become a
monk."

The man sets about His task. Forty-five years later, he
returns and knocks on the door of the monastery. He says, "I
have traveled the Earth and have found what you have asked
for. There are 145,236,284,232 blades of grass and
281,219,999,129,382 sand pebbles on the Earth."

The monks reply, "Congratulations! You are now a monk. We
shall now show you the way to the sound." The monks lead the
man to a wooden door, where the head monk says, "The sound is
right behind that door."

The man reaches for the knob, but the door is locked. He
says, "Real funny. may I have the key?" The monks give him
the key, and he opens the door. Behind the wooden door is another door made of
stone. The man requests the key to the stone door. The
monks give him the key, and he opens it, only to find a door made of ruby. He asks for yet
another key from the monks, who provide it. Behind that door
is *another* door, this one made of sapphire. So it went
until the man had gone through doors of emerald, silver,
topaz, amethyst...

Finally, the monks say, "This is the last key to the last
door."

The man is relieved to no end. He unlocks the door, turns
the knob, and behind that door he is amazed to find the
source of that strange sound.

But I can`t tell you what it is because... you`re not a monk!

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The Toona Noodle Surprise
Posted in From The Mind Of Derrick on Sep 03, 2007 at 7:05 AM
Current Mood: amused

So there I was, sitting in that classic pose: Head resting in both palms, elbows on knees, ass parked on porcelain. I sat waiting for the slow moving assault that I referred to as my bowel movement. Not having cleansed my system in a few days, I’d begun to worry a bit. The need to move had been playing with me over that time frame, but they’d been false alarms and my efforts were rewarded with nothing more than dry, sphincter-stinging, rim slapping farts.

I decided that if I couldn’t take a dump by the end of that fateful day, then I’d go ahead and spring for something like Ex-Lax, but as I rolled out of bed that morning planning a breakfast of boiled eggs, English muffins slathered with peach preserves, and a pot of that fancy Boca Java coffee (a flavor the package referred to as "Hound Dawg Heaven" and presumably named so after Elvis’ beloved fried peanut butter and ’nanner sammiches), I felt this tumble in my gut that told me it might be time to go and evacuate.

So, I gave into this impending sensation, dropped my ’jammie bottoms and took my seat upon the white throne of sorrows. I’ve heard that rushing such things was not good. Folks in poor health have died while trying to force a turd. Healthy folk have wound up with veins popped in their eyes, and started themselves on the path of ’roids and damaged tissues with reverse sodomized assholes - at least that’s how the shit lore went. I wasn’t about to find out by testing the mythology.

And so the devil began working itself out of my bowel. Experience told me that this turd wasn’t anything to be toying with once it began its exit. The problem was that gravity didn’t do its job! I kept waiting for the feeling that something had snapped off, followed by a watery "plop!" but there was none. After leaning Mr. Happy and berries over the side of my thigh to unobstruct the view, I peered anxiously into the toidy – kind of checking on progress so to speak. Those horrible words came to mind as I examined… I had a Dangler.

For those of you that have never had one, a "Dangler" is the belly button of the turd world: it’s both an insy and an outsy. No amount of crying, moaning, or rocking (back and forth OR side to side) will squeeze that joker out. You’d swear that lumpy Lincoln log was tied around a kidney somewhere. With the consistency of clay, it very seldom breaks in half, either.

Your diet is to blame, you know. In my own case, I knew the most likely culprit was the Tuna Noodle Surprise the girlfriend had whipped up for us just a few nights ago. Made of shells and cheese, condensed and undiluted mushroom soup, minced onions and sprinkled liberally with garlic salt, it had proved a deadly mixture of coagulated foodstuffs. I cursed the fact that I’d passed on the garden salad my girl had made to go with the meal. Perhaps the liquid in the lettuce would have provided enough lubrication for that dull lightning rod to pass. As it was, I could almost imagine the thing squeaking to a halt, much like a rubber inner tube on a piece of sheet metal.

I knew I was at an impasse with that satanic rectum clog; so I began looking around for something that might help: some divine intervention, if you will.

As I’ve mentioned before, my throne room is littered with reading material. One book I find indispensable is The Doctor’s Book of Home Remedies. I quickly flipped to the hard, impassible turd section, only to find there was no such chapter. Foiled, I consulted the index and found the listing for Constipation – "18 solutions to a common problem" it read. I realized that the reading was post factual to the situation, but then sometimes a distraction from the original problem might ease the condition in question (you can thank the Psychology Department at Midlands Technical College for such a precisely worded description… or at least that’s what I remember from the Abnormal Psychology course).

Among other things, the chapter suggested:
1) More liquids - I’m already up to two six packs a day. Sheesh!
2) Exercise - Don’t lifting beer mugs and fucking count as physical activity? (By the way, if any of my ex-girlfriends out there are reading this, you’d better not even think about writing in and saying, "Yes! Fucking is exercise as long as it’s prolonged…the 10 second hump YOU give burns about as many calories as a short yawn." I’ll track you down and slap the gorilla out of you!)
3) Eat more fiber - I’d rather eat a Gawd damned steel wool pad.

Perhaps my favorite suggestion was the one that told me to rub a little petroleum jelly inside the butt hole prior to squatting. Of course, it was only my favorite because the idea reminded me that I needed to get my prostate checked soon, not because I was about to stick a finger up my own ass hole.

I tossed the book aside and wondered what MacGyver would do in a situation like this. The plunger offered intriguing possibilities, but then I realized I needed to either shit or get off the pot, so to speak, in order to reach it.

The answer finally came in the form of tooth floss, which was within easy reach of my sitting position. I fashioned a lasso of sorts out of my cinnamon flavored tooth floss and managed to work the loop over the tip of the hanging scat brick. Bracing myself, I then hooked the floss over my foot and leaned back. For a few seconds I really did think that this super tootsie roll was wrapped around a kidney because I felt a tug internally. Suddenly there was the sweet bliss of freedom as another three inches of stuck shit found itself at the end of my floss!

It was an oddly glorious moment. Too bad no one was around to witness it. I felt like a fisherman who’d caught the biggest fish in the pond!

Then again, I think I’d rather be fishing for compliments,

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