Category Archives: Womens’ Tissues

Poo Girls 1 Cub!


The Governor’s General Literary Award is a national book award given to an author every year by the Governor’s General, obviously.  It’s been around since 1937 and is well respected in Canada, for whatever that’s worth. Margaret Atwood has won it a bunch of times, and HBO is turning her books into a show! Which we all know is the true epitome of literary success. It’s kind of a big deal.  In 1976, 39 years after Lord Tweedsmuir (actual human name) conceived of the award, it was given to the well celebrated Canadian author named Marian Engel for a book she wrote called Bear. It’s about a woman who fucks a bear.

My dear frienemy, Schmathan Schmeedner, introduced me to this book via social media because I am both Canadian and a complete weirdo.  I ordered it immediately. The book had been purchased, delivered, and read all within 5 days of his social media post.  I had no idea what to expect. Well, that’s not entirely true. I expected explicitly described sex between a woman and a bear. I was let down quicker than the bear’s head between the chick’s legs. The first 78 out of 122 pages are basically just the chick eye banging the bear while he poops. She LOVES watching him poop, but she calls it “moving his bowels” because if she called it pooping someone might mistake her for some sort of degenerate bear rapist. The only vaguely sexual thing before page 78 is when she takes a dump next to the bear. The first half of the book is nothing but figurative clit rubbing and literal bear shit. Scholars call it the “rising action”.  Women call it “foreplay”. I call it boring. If you’re a dude, skip it. If you’re a chick, MAKE ME A FUCKING SANDWICH!

It starts getting juicy on the bottom of the 78th page when she starts air guitaring her axe wound next to the bear after reading an unusually titillating Victorian era biography.  The self love gushes over on to the next page (79 if you’re counting) until the bear joins in with a “tongue that was muscular but also capable of lengthening itself like an eel” and finds all her “secret places”. SPOILER ALERT: He finds them to completion and then “licks away her tears”. It is unclear if the author is talking about eyeball tears or vaginal tears, but it is abundantly clear that she did way too much research for this book. Also, for the record, 79 pages is exactly 10 pages too long to wait for ursine cunnilingus. You missed a huge opportunity, Marian, a huge opportunity.

The book is also littered with bear facts, which the narrator uses to her advantage when lulling the bear into a false sense of security until she can finally take advantage of him sexually. It’s pretty boring. So, without any further ado, here is a quick guide of all the sexual misconduct in the book and a quick blurb on how each made me feel. Each encounter can be summed up by the line on page 86 when the narrator talked about the basement thusly: “the nether region was indeed dark and spidery”.

(Much like what I did with my middle school friends after I watched Pamela Anderson in Naked Souls, I’ll tell you exactly when all the naughty parts are)

1. (p. 78-79) The narrator starts masturbating while thinking about the shameful, emotionless sex she regularly has with her boss. The bear moseys on over and starts licking her everywhere. She jizzes, then cries. He licks her tears away. She mistakes this encounter for romance. She’s obviously nothing more than a fleshy salt lick to the bear, and I think even less of her than that.

2. (p. 84) This time the bear comes to her looking to munch on some box. She calls him her “fishy friend”. I find this nickname to be absurdly ironic.

3. (p. 95) “Bear, I love you. Pull my head off.” This is some Ireenie (the hoochie ma chicken head from the classic film Pootie Tang) level crazy type shit. While the bear goes down on her she cradles his “asymmetrical balls”. I admire her selflessness. The bear does not and remains unaroused.

4. (p. 98-99) The sex is getting rougher and the bear is growing more reluctant. She mentions half ripped skin and she resorts to covering herself in honey to entice him. The bear ate all the honey and then left, farting the entire time (Marian’s words not mine). This is starting to resemble every relationship I’ve ever had. All 2 of them.

5. (p. 102) “She felt sometimes that he was God. He served her. As long as she made stool beside him in the morning, he was ready whenever she spread her legs to him.” SHE WORSHIPED HIM AS A GOD AND TRADED POOP FOR PUSSY LICKINGS! At the bottom of the page they french kiss. The kiss is overshadowed by the fecal based worship, and it’s hardly worth mentioning.

6. (p. 105) They go for a swim and the bear licks her dry. She does not count this as sex, yet. She plays with his wiener a bit but the bear, yet again, does not get aroused. Perhaps there’s some human in him after all. I can’t be the only person to measure humanity by a creature’s ability to recognize the uselessness of a hand job.

7. (p. 109) The narrator bangs the very male and very human caretaker/grocer/mechanic. At this point I am repulsed by anything but human on bear intercourse, so is the narrator. Plus, the dude is married. This narrator chick is kind of a piece of shit.

8. (p. 113) Finally, we’ve made it to the break up sex. The narrator comes to her senses and realizes she can’t keep having an intimate relationship with a bear. Just kidding. The bear finally pops a boner so she presents herself to it on all fours. The bear responds by by removing a large chunk of flesh from her back. She decides to move back home and see other people.

Some people might argue that 8 instances of bestiality is enough in the span of roughly 40 pages, but those people are prude morons.

In conclusion, the book is probably trying to be some sort of meaningful feminist metaphor about a woman’s sexual liberation in a male dominated world or a commentary on how all men are filthy, shit covered animals. I suspect it’s nothing more than a harlequin romance novel about a librarian who fucks a bear, written by a hopelessly lonely Canadian woman who probably walked in on her burly, hirsute lumberjack of a husband in their marital bed with a twink. It reads like a defendant’s seemingly unending final statement before sentencing in the most insane case of bestiality ever recorded in the history of North America.

Overall, I’d have to admit it was a pretty interesting read. I’d call it a page turner if the ones in my copy weren’t all stuck together.

A Dicky Stitchuation!

I’d like to dedicate this tale to my brother, Shmamie. And no, Shmamie is not a girl’s name. Without his sage brotherly advice, this entire article would’ve been a tyrannical rant about how men are the only true victims of the worldwide epidemic known as forced female genital mutilation (which is what society calls circumcisions when performed on females). And no one wants to read that, except for maybe a handful of oppressive, male tribal leaders.

I hate my penis. It has betrayed me far too many times.  It’s worst betrayal was not in the form of a regrettable woman, of which there have been slightly more than a few, but came in the form of a regrettable condition known as phimosis.  Phimosis is something that only uncircumcised penises can get. It’s caused by lots of stuff, from dry sex and/or masturbation to just being an unlucky uncircumcised penis and anything in between. Don’t worry, the condition is uncommon. Don’t panic and Nip/Tuck yourself:

This is what America will look like if we let #NObama steal our guns.

This is what America will look like if we let #NObama steal our guns.

The doctor explained that phimosis is when the foreskin gets too tight for the head of the penis to fit through.  Of course, I didn’t know any of this when I went to see the dick doc and told him my penis was acting more coy than usual. If it were a groundhog, there’d be six more weeks of winter and my penis would have nothing left to shield itself from the cold. I tried to tell him that maybe my penis had gotten too big for my foreskin, I’ve always been a foreskin half full kind of guy, but he finally convinced me my theory was medically impossible and circumcision was the only option.

Most guys are ashamed of their foreskin. I was the opposite of those guys, to an uncomfortable degree. Damn the man, I wore it like a badge of honor. I made my friends refer to it as fiveskin when it came up in casual conversation, and I made sure to bring it up whenever I felt it appropriate. It rarely mattered how many families at the dog park were calling the police, they were going to know that my penis looked like Merlin’s sleeve and they were going to watch me pull a chihuahua out of it. I was devastated that I had to get circumcised and I was in no way comforted by the fact that my advanced age made a full circumcision too risky. Who knew one of the benchmarks of manly adulthood would be necessarily restrictive genital surgery. We decided not to risk it, and only cut off about half my foreskin. I’m approximately two skins lighter. I’ll try to explain it in terms my fashionably conscious readership can understand. If penises were styles of men’s shirt collars, your normie penises would be a crew neck. My original penis, the beta version, would be a full turtleneck. My new penis, Penis 2.0 and a 1/2, is a mock neck. Forever stuck in penis limbo somewhere between one and three skins.

The procedure itself wasn’t bad. They knocked me out cold, which is a luxury not afforded to infant victims of circumcision. Because babies are tougher than me right?  Yeah, they actually probably are. The recovery was the thing that sex nightmares are afraid of.  For the first few days my dick looked like a twice baked potato that a drunken maniac stitched together using smaller, uglier twice baked potatoes. Obviously, I’m being figurative about the twice baked potatoes, but I am not being figurative about the stitches. I had actual, literal dick stitches right around the base of the head. I was afraid to pee at urinals. What if someone casually caught a glimpse of my genitals? Riots would ensue and the townie folk would chase my penis out of town with pitchforks and torches like Frankenstein’s monster’s dick.

The dick stitches took some getting used to, and I had pills for the pain, but the random bleeding was the worst.  My genitals could’ve started bleeding at any time with no warning, I felt like a  girl expectantly dangling on the cusp of pubescence, taking a shower after gym class.  A couple weeks went by, and I went to my follow up, where I thought he was going to take my stitches out. I was wrong. Turns out my boner was going to do all the work for him. A stitch popping boner might sound unbearable to the uninitiated, but it’s quite the opposite.  My first morning wood, or mourning wood as I call them now (may my fiveskin rest in pieces), was like unchaining Django. It’s how Toby would’ve felt if they didn’t beat the name Kunta Kinte out of his very being. My dick was Bruce Banner succumbing to The Hulk and tearing almost all of his clothes off, his mostly unscathed but tattered shorts perfectly representing the surviving remnants of my dick skin apocalypse.

Despite the fact that phimosis makes sex and/or peeing unbearable, and adult circumcisions are bloody and horrific ordeals, I am still wholeheartedly against them for children. Phimosis is too rare to justify the systematic mutilation of our most male offspring. Teach your kids what soap and lube is and their scary, hooded penises will be just fine. The only medical reason for it is to put money in a doctor’s wallet. One of the reasons it’s so commonplace is because some dude wanted kids to stop masturbating and his original plan of force feeding them graham crackers didn’t work. His name was Sylvester Graham, the creator of the graham cracker. I’m not sure if he invented baby dick guillotines, but he probably tried to. Circumcision is ignorant and barbaric, but my main issue with it is it’s sexism. It is 100% illegal to circumcise a female baby and it is 100% encouraged to circumcise a male baby. That’s 200% sexist, which is so off the charts sexist, it almost seems like I probably just made it up.


Bawler Status!

Bawl so hard, box of tissues
Bawl so hard, family issues
Bawl so hard, your mascara is fleeing
Bawl so hard, your face is peeing

Bawl til you fall
In the fetal position
Bawl as you crawl
Away from attrition

Bawl til you haul
Your fat ass to the toilet
Bawl in the stall
You shouldn’t’ve did it

Bawl when you call
Your cousin in Kansas
Bawl cuz you stall
When you tell him it’s his

Bawl so hard, you did incest
Bawl so hard, you’re no princess
Bawl so hard, you really loved him
Bawl so hard, you shoulda gloved him

Bawl cuz you think
A life was cut short
Bawl when you drink
Cuz you chose to abort

Dave and Buster Cervix!

As a single thirty year old male, people are constantly asking me about women’s reproductive issues, and I always oblige (even if no one actually asks). For instance, I’ve discovered a method of birth control, that if done correctly is 100% safe and 100% effective. It’s a bit of a twist on an old classic. I call it the “pull out method”. The lamestream media wants you to believe that it doesn’t work all the time, but I’m here to tell you that it does work, you just have to be sure to pull it out within the first trimester.

Abortions should not only be legal, they should be fun. I dream of a future in which abortions are as abundant and affordable as those novelty claw arcade games. It would be even better if they were also similar in execution (get it?). It really is a great business plan. I’d put some machines in Dave and Buster’s, maybe for cross promotional purposes I’d convince them to temporarily change their name to Dave and Bust Her Cervix. The real money is in Chuck E Cheese’s though. I’d make so much coin, I wouldn’t even make them temporarily change their name to Chuck D Fetuses. I dare a pregnant woman to walk into a crowded Chuck E Cheese’s, surrounded by the screeching hell spawn of middle America, and not pay four tokens to get her “baby” clawed out of her loins by an in-house trained middle aged dude making minimum wage, who is probably a furry. Of course the woman could choose to have her partner or a friend man the joystick, but she better choose wisely because they only get two attempts, anything after that requires more tokens. If the abortion is a success you not only win limitless financial and social freedom, you also win some tickets. Tickets that can be exchanged at the counter for anything from Chinese finger traps and pennywhistles to condoms and diaphragms. It’s not a good first date, but it’s one hell of a second one. If you know what I mean.

That’s how abortions would work in my utopian future. However, once the hipsters inevitably take over the world, they’re going to want to go in the completely opposite direction. They’ll want to do old school abortions, or “vintage”, as they’ll teach us to call it in their Portland area re-education camps. Abortions will probably be more like catfish noodling. A doctor, or hillbilly, will shove half their arm up the vagina, wait for a nibble, and then yank the (probable) bastard out and throw it in a river. It will definitely add a whole new dimension to the float trip industry.

If anyone is still reading this gibberish, you probably think I’m pro choice and, much like a hopeful fetus, you would be dead wrong. A lot of people get pro choice confused with pro abortion, which is what I am. I support a woman’s right to have an abortion, but I refuse to support her right to choose to do so or not.

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