Art Huxtable's Guide to Fatherhood on the Cheap

Some guys want kids, but don't want to get married. Men's sexual market value (SMV hereon) increases well into their 60s+ if they play their cards right (i.e. stay fit, have your career in order, be an interesting person, dress well, etc.). Whereas the SMV of women decreases pretty much linearly after around 30. That’s because women look at a much broader set of criteria in selecting a mate than men do. This stems from the simple fact that I could go impregnate a small village tomorrow and a woman has to carry a kiddo in the gut for 9 months.

Therefore, a man is genetically incentivized to fuck as many fertile looking bitches as he can get his hands on while a woman must be far more selective. A man wants to knock up a fit chick who will bless his child with good genetics and who has them joocy thighs and wide hips to increase the odds of a successful pregnancy. A woman wants a man who will pass good genes on to her child and who will be a good father, so she wants a man who’s physically attractive but also is charismatic and driven. Makes sense, right? Right. Moving on.

See where the lines intersect? That usually happens in your early 30s. Coincidentally, that’s when women start to “settle down.” Settle down from what? From riding the cock carousel with cool dudes who she likes spending time with, but realizes won’t commit to her. To the herby nine to fiver who she has to convince herself isn’t boring, but who she knows will stick around and pay for her botox and Prozac and her kid’s braces. He’ll definitely need them. I haven’t seen my dad since I was 4. I never needed braces. My mouth is fucking gorgeous. Coincidence? Doubtful. If Plan A and Plan B fall through, I’m becoming a mouth model, kid.

So if you’re a man who has his ducks in a row and you realize you don’t want to commit to one woman (Marriage was instituted by the Church, by the way, and Artie don’t fux with organized religion in any capacity. Those dicks should have to pay taxes like everyone else) for the rest of your life, but you want to have kids to carry on your genetic legacy and whatever other legacy you set into motion during your lifetime… you face a conundrum.

Aside: I believe that there’s a good chance that technology allowing humans to effectively live forever in some shape or form will come along in my lifetime. I still want kids though. You’ll probably need mad guap to access it though, so I gotta stack cheddar cheese in the meantime. And there’s a chance it will be regulated by the government or some shit and they’ll only let noteworthy people transplant their brains onto hard drives or whatever, so you gotta do some noteworthy shit in your life too. Gotta make the public want to keep your ass around, dig?

So anyway, you want a kid on the cheap? Knock up a chick in college. You should be working internships in college if you’re not retarded. Ask the dumbass working at Arby’s with his Communications degree how many internships he had in college. Even better, ask him how many he bothered applying for. Chances are, the number’s lower than his GPA; which isn’t saying much.

Anyway, if you have a kid out of wedlock, you gotta pay child support. This is fair, but how they determine how much you pay is not. They take a flat percentage of what you’re making at the time and tell you to pay that every month to the mother for the next eighteen years. It’s actually pretty common for comedians and ex-TV stars to be fucking broke because they start getting known, start getting some pussy, fuck around and get a chick preggers, and get their child support rated off of the money they’re making at the time. Then their gig dries up and they’re stuck owing $80K a month to some bitch who drives a pink Rover who was a hairdressed when you met. Meanwhile, you're lucky to get $200 in a night at The Comedy Store.

So what you gotta do is flip the script on ‘em! Intern pay sucks veiny dragon dildos compared to full time. But in college, you have access to all these sexy fertile bitches who will be fucking your boss after graduation. So what you do is you impregnate the most genetically gifted chick you can find at least 9 months before you graduate and get your child support rated off of your bullshit intern pay. Then, you graduate, accept the full time offer, and keep paying that nonsense child support while watching your checks grow each year. Child support doesn't match inflation either, so $1,000 today is only worth $577 (3% inflation assumption) by age 18. Now the chick has 9 months to bail, so you probably gotta lead her on. Might need to cop a cubic zirconia. But she led you on with that pushup bra, so it's a fair trade.

Then, with all that money you save, you can buy your kid a bunch of cool shit and take him on trips and shit so that he loves you more. Let mom pay for the lame bullshit like food and housing. Because life is a competition and all is fair in love and war.

Tinder Match Optimization

Whipped this up while waiting for my phone to charge:

Art Huxtable Gets Catfished - Lives to Tell the Tale

Artie got catfished for the first time like 4 hours ago and will now recount his tale. This might be written shittily. I'm on 90 minutes of sleep and 2 Xannies. Will fix later. maybe:

I met this 21-year-old chick on Tinder who lives pretty close. Her pics were decent-looking face pics, most of which were with other girls. Two red flags:

1. Only face pics: These bitches are filter, lighting, and angle wizards.
2. Mostly group shots: They post pictures with their more attractive friends thinking guys will just go with the flow. No bitch, I gotta know what I'm getting into (lel).

Aside: Protip for checking IDs of girls who may or may not be of legal boinking age: Throw casually into pre-boink conversation: "I just got a new ID. Look how shit this picture is (my picture is str8 gorgie btw). Half the time, they'll volunteer theirs for comparison. If they don't, just ask. Or just skip the bullshit and ask to see it. Make some shit up about hair color; it doesn't fucking matter.

But definitely do card a chick who looks young, is wearing any high school apparel, generally comes off like a retarded high schooler, etc. These bitches are crazy and will get your ass locked up. But try to stay away from fresh high school grads overall. They fucking suck in bed. Often times not literally. lawl. Met an 18-year-old chick who was DTF within 45 minutes of meeting, but though giving head was gross. lol okay whatever.

Anyway, I forgot how we started talking, but the conversation transitioned to texting and got sexual quickly. This bitch is fucking filthy and I was convinced she had mental problems within like 4 texts. That's never stopped me before, so I kept on truckin'. Plus, there was talk of a threesome with her friend, who was confirmed real and moderately attractive.

I was never into sexting or trading pics. I just use texting for logistics; and sometimes to amuse myself. I'm not looking for a pen pal. But this bitch would send me literally a paragraph of filthy, nasty shit at all hours. I don't know when she sleeps. Then she'd text me, 'Fuck you, never contact me again' after I failed to respond within 10 minutes. Bitches need hobbies, I swear.

Right, so we started talking on Tuesday, I think. I hadn't had sex since Sunday, I think. The testiculars were growing heavy like a Chevy. I knew this chick wasn't gonna be a dime, but the face shots looked cute, she was a freak (fun), and I honestly am not that picky for casual sex. My pickiness is inversely correlated with [(Time since last ejaculation)(~1+(0.2+BAC))] with a lower limit on the 1-10 scale of like 6. Maybe 5.5. Yo, imagine if we had a 10 star scale instead of just 1-10 points or 5 stars. I'm a fucking revolutionary!

Guys are like, 'Bro, I only fuck dimes.'
First off, fuck you, no you don't.
Second off, why? Who the fuck cares? Pussy is pussy. I'll fuck a chubby chick as long as she still has some curves (read: concave at the sides with nice thighs, not what these fat bitches call curves. those are folds, whore) and a cute face. I'm not trying to find the mother of my son here. But when it is time for that, she's gonna have to be a fucking perfect genetic specimen. This is necessary to perpetuate the legacy that my life will set into motion.

My reasoning: I'm fucking awesome. Definitely moreso than my faggot father (I love alliteration btw). If I can have a kid with a woman who's a better genetic specimen and a better mother than my mom (shouldn't be terribly difficult, sorry mom. please never see this blog), combined with being raised in a loving, two-parent household, my son will be the embodiment of greatness. Your kids will probably have to take futureorders from him.

Okay, so it's Thursday and I'm at work. This bitch is sending me disgusting shit. That combined with going on a week of no sex and stuff from a few other chicks in the pipeline led to me spending most of the day with an erection. Oh yeah, we basically hate each other at this point and it's agreed I'm going to ragefuck her and she's getting poked in the bum. We agree to meet after work.

She called me on my way home. I kept the convo short and could only make out like a third of what this bitch was saying like she was using a fucking Razr flip phone from 2004. She's clearly not straight retarded, but there is something off about her. I can't put my finger on it. But I might put my finger in it lololo

Anyway, I tell her to give me her address. Radio silence. I get home and I'm like, fuck it, I'm gonna go work out. She texts me saying she's feeling insecure about meeting up. I'm tired of her shit at this point and tell her to text me her address by the time I'm done working out or stop contacting me. She never hits me back and I delete her number.

Oh yeah, I have blue balls from having a boner all day at this point. Working out only reduced the intensity of my ailment by like 35%. I hit up NeighborChick (not actually my neighbor but close enough to hold the title for now) to relieve some tension. While I'm with NeighborChick, a number I don't know calls me. I ignore it, as per SOPs. I recorded my voicemail when I was like 12 and still use it. trollolol. I ignore a couple more calls and head home.

I get home. She starts texting me. Like, a lot. The type of shit a wife who thinks her husband is cheating would text. And I had't even met this bitch yet. Red flags all up in my grill, yo. I'm just trying to write a new song and am in a pretty decent mood and just want her to fuck off. I can't find an app to block both calls and texts. I just silence and flip my phone and work on some music for a couple hours. Made a delicious turkey burger (no bun; that's for fatties) with some salad too. Mixed that pink Himalayan sea salt and roasted Tabasco in. With the olive oil, crushed black pepper, apple cider vinegar, sharp cheddar melted onto the burger, and brie in the salad.

I'm done with my song at like 1AM, pop some ZMA I got in the mail that day, and head to bed. I don't really fuck with any supplements beside fish oil, but I'm trying to get into lucid dreaming and this shit's supposed to help. Ya boy wants to fuck a Pokemon in his sleep and cum Koolaid all over its antenna. Sue me

Look back at my phone. Bunch of missed shit. Text her to fuck off: Mistake #27. This bitch's horniness is directly correlated with how mean I am to her. And it's hard for me not to be. She's an annoying retard who texts me pictures of Vicodin and Goose bottles like a fucking high schooler.

She starts writing all the nasty shit she wants to do. I'm bored and can't sleep, so I humor myself by with some shit I know will drive her crazy. She calls me saying she's dripping wet bla bla. My penis is growing (lol) erect. And once it's up, it's not going down without a fight. Fuck, why did I do that. I know this is a bad idea at this point, but I'm past the point of no return and curiosity outweighs all other feelings.

It's 1:30 am. Pandora is gonna wake me up at 6:25am. I decide I'm going to fuck this chick. She lives 15 min away. Round trip + 90 min there = I'm back at 4 am if I leave soon. Two and a half hours sleep is plenty for a Thursday night.

I get the addy, grab some rubbers (Either this chick is just perpetually horny or a fucking gutter slut, or both, but I'm wearing like 3 rubbers at once with this one. for realsies)don'tactuallydothis, and head out. Driving at 2 am is awesome. Fuck other cars.

I get there and call her. I told her to be out of the shower and ready by the time I got there and told her my fucking ETA. I'm big on efficiency. I call her upon arrival. 'Oh shit, give me like three minutes. I just got out of the shower.'

'I don't give a fuck. Just throw some shit on and come show me where to park.' I rapid right swipe on Tinder as I wait. These are unconquered grounds.

Three minutes turn into ten. Goddamnit this bitch is no doubt applying enough makeup and cover up to kill a test chimp. Speaking with her on her fucking flip phone is infuriating. She insists she has a Galaxy. I don't fucking care. Annunciation your shit, you cunt.

She refuses to come outside and tries to guide me in like a fucking air traffic controller. A disgusting, annoying air traffic controller. I get pissed off, park at the stop sign, and get out. She obviously can see me but won't approach and makes me guess which house is hers in the dark. Red flags flying high as fuck. We talking some Medieval Times castle, Siege of Stalingrad, Tiananmen Square flag raising type shit

The prospect of getting catfished actually doesn't cross my mind once. I think that I may have a knife pulled on me within the next 10 minutes, but I'm okay with and mildly excited by this possibility. Arty likes a challenge. I leave my wallet in the car.

I figure out which house is hers and start walking up the driveway. Is that a recycling bin in the middle of their garage? What odd placement.

I get closer.

Oh god. Oh god damn it. The outline of The Mountain is awkwardly looming in the shadows.

If Gollum was given 12 pounds of weed and access to a 7-11, this is what would emerge in a year.

I tactically assess the situation:

Convex on sides? Check.
Cute face? Can't make it out clearly. 
Probably not based on how long it took her to come out. Even if so, not enough to make up for the degree of convexity.

Wants to do gross shit? Check.
Probably talks a much bigger game than she walks based on her assumed appearance and will be physically difficult to maneuver around? Check.

I had no contingency plan. I approach her and follow her toward her half-open garage door, trying to find a redeeming feature in this hobgoblin - trying to convince myself that the darkness is playing tricks on me.

We're approaching the garage horizon; this is the moment of truth. Artie, if you cross that line, you will emerge a changed man. I can't do it. It is not within me.

"Are you allergic to dogs?"
"I left my car unlocked."

Swerve.
Drove home listening to Katy Perry and Lorde. long hair don't care

I kind of regret not smashing. Or at least letting her to blow me in my car. I just got my tire pressure adjusted though. And I was afraid she'd get hungry and bite off my cock.

It would have been a flag, at least: My fattest flag ever. On the bright side, this is my first catfish. Also a flag! I can't fucking lose.

I'm just genuinely curious as to what made this chick think I'd go through with it. Did she not see this face? Fucking gorgeous. Did she not see this body? Impeccable. Personality? Tolerable. Future prospects? Convoluted, yet bright.

Did she think that...

1. My standards were that low, despite my undisguisable awesomeness?
2. I was just that fucking horny? I'd rather go home, cut a hole in my memory foam mattress, and fuck that.
3. I wouldn't be at all upset about clearly being misled?

I'm just curious as to what the thought process of crazy bitches actually is. The female mind fucking intrigues and astounds me. Like lizards and paper clip necklaces.

She's probably gonna see this. I hope she does. I linked her this blog in an attempt to get her to fuck off in repulsion, but it had the opposite affect. Maybe I did a good thing. Maybe I was a vessel of Raptor Jesus looking out for this girl. Maybe she hobbled back into her shack and ate some fucking celery. Jokes, son. No way celery has ever entered this creature's refrigerator, let alone her mouth portal. But still. Maybe she jotted down "Celery" on her shopping list right under the Wonder Bread and bacon & cheese Hot Pockets.

'But they're high in protein and calcium!' Maybe she'll get her shit together, put down the Krispy Kremes, buy some running shoes, actually use them for their intended purpose, and emerge from her lair in a year as one of those former fat girls (FFGs hereon) who still has fat girl self-esteem.

Or maybe she killed herself. Haven't heard from her since. Either way, world's better off.

And I say that objectively, from a third-person perspective. I don't hate fat people; I just dislike that they exist. I disagree with those who say that being fat is a choice:

We live in a society in which being fat is really easy due to advances in technology, the economy, and our societal safety net. In ancient times, corpulence was a sign of wealth and/or royalty. Motherfuckers had to work to eat. Our society also allows for the lowest common genetic denominators to reproduce. They enter their late 30s, decide they don't want to die alone, settle, and make ugly little genetically defective babies that go on to be mediocre at best, complain to everyone about everything, and demand minimum wage hikes. And the cycle perpetuates itself. The inferior used to just die out.

So this bitch is born with shitty genes, which combined with her life experiences (probably involve parental molestation based on her texts), either directly or indirectly led to her being fat. Which leads to an increasingly defeatist attitude. The cycle is self-perpetuating. We live among walking (read: waddling) fossils: remnants of genes that should have washed out of the gene pool long ago. And these people go on to have more children, on average, than those with superior genetics. Good thing we keep them in check with McDonald's, CNN, and sprinkles:

Vice: Cry Baby of the Week

Art Huxtable's 2014 World Cup Bracket

Do I think the United States of America will win it all? Of course not. But fuck you if you don't root for your home country.

Goldman's money is on Brazil:
http://www.goldmansachs.com/our-thinking/outlook/world-cup-and-economics-2014-folder/world-cup-economics-report.pdf

Goldman is comprised of risk-averse, traitorous needledick bitches who would shoot poison darts at their mothers' necks for a 3% bonus hike. The insurmountable amount of shit these guys ate in high school has turned them into soulless, spreadsheet-pumping machines that feed on prestige, mediocre cocaine, and hippie tears.

You root for your fucking home country. If you don't like your home country, you move to a country with an ideology that aligns with your own. If you live in a shithole and can't get out (I see you, my seven Argentinian and Kazakhstanian readers), you do everything in your power to change your country.

My fellow Ukrainians were unhappy with their Mafi-run, Putin-influenced government. They did something about it. The younger generation of the entire Arab world was fed up with being oppressed. They did something about it. These people acted to advance humanity. They want their kids to live better than they do. They're willing to do something about it. Fuck you if you aren't. Go sit in a closed garage with the engine running.

Fuck Bloomberg too:
http://www.bloomberg.com/visual-data/world-cup/#0,0,-1

Artie Hux Buys a Keychain Breathalizer

Woke up today, mild hangover from last night's BBQ festivities. Started drinking vodka with Powerade Zero around 2pm. Drank and worked on my music until 4pm. Drank lots of Fat Tire and some girly wine at the BBQ. My brother stealth recorded me, as he likes to do, so here's a snippet:

First order of business: popped 2mg clonazepam washed down with a sip of melted ice vodka. shit, shower, shave, dress. I'm at the train stop 40 min later and two water bottles deep.

blow a 0.09 on the bench outside. Can't tell whether the Asian girl next to me is impressed or disgusted. She's ugly, so Artie don't care.

Chug another water bottle.

0.08. okay cool. I don't feel buzzed and the K-pins are kicking in, so whatever.

20 minutes later, blow a 0.06 on the train. I brag to the guy next to me about the herculean virility of my liver. He is impressed with my contraption. We discuss why Apple products suck.

Throw two pieces of Stride spearmint gum in my mouth. Yeah, two. Because I'm well-off like that.
Just kidding. I get packs for free at work. They need to add some variety to the kitchen though because Five is superior.

Blow a 0.11 after 5 minutes of chewing!

Don't know whether it's just Stride or spearmint in general, but this shit makes your breathalyzer score go up! I wonder how many guys fucked themselves into DUIs when they could have skipped the gum and blew a 0.07.

I subsequently wonder how many guys have gotten out of DUIs with the gum defense. I can't find any solid stats on Google in the 3 minutes I looked, but it's definitely been done.

Fuck do I wish I'd known all this shit about beating DUIs BEFORE I got a DWI. For fucking pot. I've since met a fair amount of lawyers and the ones who know this story say they could have beaten the case easily on multiple grounds. I kind of brought it upon myself though by:

1. Being approached by a cop who had, about six months earlier, come to my home and more or less told me to stop selling drugs or they're coming back with a warrant. And I did stop within two days, returning only once for a brief 3 month period during which I needed cash fast. For drugs, yo. If you're ever cutting a check to someone you don't like, put "Drugs, yo" in the "For:" section.

2. Being approached in a police refueling station (I thought it was a closed-down gas station) while smoking a cigarette, fiddling with my GPS, and having a mini bong in one cup holder and a tin jar of pot in the other. I was being fucking responsible by not driving and playing with my GPS. Take-away? I don't fucking know. My DNA test (shoutout 23andme) did tell me that I don't learn from mistakes well compared to the average European male, so there's that.

3. Telling the officer I had nothing illegal in my car when he asked me to step out. He obviously saw the paraphernalia immediately, but I was high and barred the fuck out and didn't really give a shit about anything at that point in life.

4. After being arrested for pot and paraphernalia possession, being handed my keys back, and being told to get driven home and pick up my car in the morning... and being told that my car was being monitored by video... I chose to get in and attempt to drive home. I was sober by this point, I think. I had just spent 4 hours at the police station acting like a hardass.

Got pulled over for swerving and failing to reduce speed (total bullshit, they just wanted to fuck me. I would have wanted to fuck me too. I'd still fuck me winkeyface). Got a DWI and a few other minor charges. For fucking pot.

Then, I consented to a field sobriety test (which I fucking nailed. I saw the video. I was like a gymnast in that bitch), but I also consented to a piss test. Which I did not fucking nail.

I chose such a shit lawyer that I ended up firing him half way through the drawn-out court proceedings. All-in, it cost me ~$4K in various fees and fines, 2 years of supervised supervision (had to report to a PO monthly), 75 hours of alcohol and drug education classes (where the mustached instructor talked primarily about WWE and fishing and where I met my go-to pharmaceutical guy for the next year). I was going to community college and working as an optician at the time, so making time for these mandatory 3-hour sessions was a headache.

...And 50 hours of public service, which is different from community service. Community service is when you pick what you want to do. Public service is when they assign you to a spot to do your hours at. I put off doing those and never went to the first spot I was assigned, so they reassigned me to a fitness center a mile from where I was living at the time.

The general manager was a cool burly dude with white chest hair poking through his Dickies shirt who would take me to the basement with him and we would chain smoke and he'd complain about his girlfriend and his truck.

The guy who actually ran shit was a little Ukrainian dude. Note: My grandpa, who is a badass who guzzles vodka at 81 and goes alpine skiing, goes to that gym. Also, I'm Ukrainian and so is my grandpa obviously.

Once SovietManager found out who my grandpa was, my pool cleaning days were over. I'd come in, we'd go to his office in the basement, and he would complain about how my grandpa manipulates the sauna temperature by throwing cold water onto the thermometer and tell me about the Old Country. We'd talk for an hour, he'd sign off that I did 8, and I'd go home to do whatever the fuck I was doing those days.

Back to the breathalyzer: The day I was finally sentenced and met my PO, I had been drinking JD the night before and was sweating liquor in court that morning. I didn't know they were going to breathalyze me each visit and I blew a 0.05. PO was a total bro. I joked with him all the time to tip me in on which pawn shops in the area gave the best deals because I would need to pawn all my shit to pay these fucking court fees. Now that I think of it, it'd be good to mail that guy a bottle of nice scotch. But all I have is his work info. I'll figure this out later. There's a short list of people who have been bros to me who I need to mail some good liquor to.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure he knew I was still buzzing. This dude knows what liquor smells like. He's like, 'You don't look so good. You had some cough syrup last night, didn't you?'
'Um, yeah my throat's been sore.' *Throat clear*
'Yeah, that can really throw these things off. Just make sure you don't use any of that next time I see you. I'm using my discretion this time and writing down zero. Which I'm allowed to do, by the way.'
'Yes sir.'

Potted Plants Over Bouquets

It's my mother's birthday today. I got her a bunch of shit showcasing what a fucking thoughtful son I am and indirectly thanking her for putting up with my degenerate ass for all these years and undoubtedly having years of her life shaved off since my birth (I tried to come out the wrong way. trolled).

In addition to all that, flowers are mandatory. I've always hated gifting flowers. Don't get me started on how fucking stupid women's obsession with diamonds is and how men who purchase them are chumps. So I'm gonna go spend money on something that'll wither and die in a week? Fuck a depreciating asset. I'm a hypocrite because I spend money on retarded shit all the time,  but I'm working on it.

Lately, I've been gifting potted flowers when the situation calls for it. Here's why:

1. If it's for someone who has a balcony or a yard, they can plant it. It's seen as more thoughtful. Google some shit about that particular flower. It brings peace to a household or some shit and I wanted them to be everlasting for you.

2. You stand out from the bunch. I'm at my mom's house right now. I already gifted her some potted Lilies or some shit along with all the other shit (delivered gradually over the course of an hour for added impact). The doorbell rings. I turn down my M-Audio monitors and emerge onto the balcony overlooking our front door wearing only basketball shorts, having just come back from a run to see who it is - partially hoping it's one of my mom's friends so that I could show off my glistening body and abundance of chest hair. An advantage of not having a dad is that nobody wants to turn my childhood bedroom into a fucking man cave once I move out and I still keep a bed and some other shit here.

Sister walks in with my niece in one arm and a bouquet of motherfucking Lilies in the other. I grin.
"Hey Sis, hey there Niece! What's the haps? Very thoughtful bouquet, sis. Is it the kind that doesn't wither and die in a week? I hear Google's been working on that."

Sis walks into the kitchen and sees my magnificent potted Lilies sitting on the table: the focal point of the entire room. Last night, I sprinkled two packets of that plant food shit that comes with bouquets onto it, watered it, and kept it hidden in the back yard overnight. This plant is in pristine fucking condition. My sister looks like she's about to cry, shit, and vomit. At the same. Damn. Time. I just showed her up in front of her small child. Maybe this will be Niece's first memory.

3. So if you're on good terms with the person you're giving flowers to, it's seen as more thoughtful and shit. If you're not, you just trolled the shit out of them. Enjoy watering these bitches daily. I just cancelled all your future trips with $14. Now that's value.

4. I haven't been in a relationship since high school and I haven't given a girl flowers ever. But if a situation arose in which I found this gesture appropriate, I am confident that potted flowers would be superior to a faggy bouquet in every arena. 
If shit goes well, she's reminded of you all the time and is more likely to hit you up for dick.
If shit goes south... enjoy never going on vacation again. And enjoy crying about the dick you're missing out on as you flower your fucking Petunias with tears.

Doesn't even have to be flowers. Get a Mexican bitch a fucking cactus.

Don't Jerk Off. Don't Look at Porn.

In fact, delete all your porn and your LatinaMilf links. I did a while back and it's helped my life immensely. Obviously, this is anecdotal evidence on my part, but if you want some real evidence:

http://yourbrainonporn.com/
There are also a bunch of great Ted Talks (Google it) on why porn is harmful to you in the long-term.

Why I stopped watching porn was because I began to see that there was a direct negative correlation between [time + frequency since I last watched porn] and [social prowess]. Basically, watching porn did something to my brain or my balls or my dick or the alignment of our moon with Jupiter that made me not be on my natural game. 

I just didn't feel like a lion scoping out gazelles to prey on and weaker lions to subjugate to my will while walking through the Chicago Loop to work every morning, or at the supermarket, or anywhere. I didn't feel as outgoing.

I noticed this primarily with women. I was more timid to approach, more timid in my approaches, and subsequently less successful in bedding women.
I noticed this at work. I didn't speak up in meetings. I wasn't as energetic. I just didn't feel that energy that I feel now from people drawing us together with me being the final arbiter of whether or not I want to build a relationship with that person.

I noticed changes in my diet and athleticism. I felt like a sloth. I would come home from class or work to drink beer and eat shitty Chinese food. I didn't feel motivated to run or work out. And when I did, I wasn't making progress like I am now and I wasn't getting as much fulfillment out of exercise.

Fake it 'til you make it, right? I've always thought that phrase is used inappropriately way too often, but I think it works in this context: Become the man you want to be today. You think your ancient ancestors managed to survive and reproduce for 200,000 years by sitting around with their dicks in their hands? No. Those guys probably existed, but their weak ass genes are no longer around.

But thanks to the society we live in, even the weakest of genes are getting passed on. Embrace your inner animal. Become the man you want to be. This isn't some self help shit. This is some live your fucking life to the fullest shit. Again, this is anecdotal evidence, but I feel fucking phenomenal. My life is great and I'm going places. I'm in great shape. My career trajectory is awesome and I have options. I have sex with sexy bitches on the regular. I travel all over the fucking world. Why live vicariously through Lex Luther's dick?

So delete all that shit now. This isn't some 30/60/90 day challenge. This is just how you live your life now. You're not a guy who watches people fuck on camera and jerks his dick to thoughts of being that guy. That puts fucked up thoughts of inferiority into your subconscious that manifest themselves in all areas of your life. And if you can't escape being that guy, I would rip your throat out in the wild and impregnate your girl. We like to pretend we aren't fucking animals with our shiney bullshit, but we are. And as a man, you should strive to be a dominant and well-developed (in several areas of life) Human specimen.

You're gonna see a surprising amount of free time open up. Use it productively. Personally, I read a lot of books, work on my music, and pursue a few other hobbies. You're gonna see your social anxiety (we all have it to some degree; some choose to deal with it like men and some choose to dull themselves with pills and liquor) dwindle. You're gonna see women act more flirty with you and you won't know why. They won't know why either; that's fine. That's just their brains' reaction to their subconscious picking up on subtleties in your behavior, your body language, your vocal tone, your rate of speech, etc. Also, they literally smell your dominant phucking pheromones penetrating their delicate nostrils. And you're gonna gradually learn what to do about it instinctively.

Finally, there are online communities of guys out there doing "NoFap" challanges. Stay the fuck off them. This isn't a challenge; it's just how you live your life. You don't need support from those losers (good luck to them though, seriously). What kind of fucked up rationale is it to read about not jerking off while trying to avoid jerking off? Just delete that shit, put it out of your mind, and reap the benefits.

Godspeed

Friday Frustration

When you're at your desk and everything is seemingly normal. You had some turkey and a salad for dinner last night with a few glasses of scotch: nothing out of the ordinary. You had a nice breakfast of eggs with ham and veggies.

Then, suddenly, like South Park Satan himself poking his horney head out of the depths of hell.. you feel it.

It: That feeling that is the definition of inescapable, unmistakable anguish. You feel as if a small rattle snake ate a tarantula (which is still alive in its stomach and fighting furiously to get out), then slithered through broken beer bottles and into a teleporter which led it directly to your colon.

You know that the only solution is to evacuate your bowels like they were Chernobyl on April 26, 1986. You tactically power walk to the kitchen like a soccer mom at noon on a Sunday with 5 pound dumbbells strapped to her palms. You pour 3/4 a cup of black coffee and fill the rest with ice water; you do not have time to wait for the transfer of heat to run its course. Isaac Newton doesn't know your struggle. The expression on your face is the same one the CIA trains its operatives to make if being interrogated.

Having downed two cups of watered down black coffee, you make for the restroom. The handycap stall is empty: Our first victory. You enter swiftly. The cripples can wait. They get the best parking spots. Let us have this one thing. They probably have the option of nonchalantly shitting in a bag anyway with toilets just being a luxury.

Both tarantulas and snakes can apparently go for a very long time without oxygen. Do your bowels have oxygen in them? Do spiders even breathe? You commit to looking into this later.

The toilet seat is clean: Another victory. You lay down four layers of toilet paper over the seat so as not to catch AIDS from the one minority who works at your office. You take off your pants, roll up your sleeves up past your elbows, unbutton your shirt down to your sternum, and grasp your phone with both hands. Gladiator music begins to play.

The waiting game begins. You can feel the serpent squirm, yet your exit port refuses to dilate. You begin to sympathize with pregnant women. At least they get a spinal tap. Or drugs if they're terrible people.

No progress yet. You have experienced about a dozen different sensations at this point. You wonder whether anybody has ever done a spinal tap with a MasterCard. This is added to your list of things to look into once you are free from the clutches of Nagini. Or rather, once it's free from yours.

You distract yourself by messaging stupid shit to fat girls you matched with four days ago on Tinder. One replies immediately. You inform her of your anguish.

As the minutes tick on, the dreadful sequence of quasi-alien sensations gradually decrease in intensity. You are relieved, but at the same time concerned as to what kind of nether beast resides inside of your body at this very moment. The armpits of your shirt are soaked. Fuck it. It can stay as long as it keeps quiet. All serpentine infractions will be forgiven so long as the sensations go away.

You feel comfortable enough to go back to your desk. After several deep breaths and a few more minutes of swiping right on Tinder, you muster the strength to get dressed. Right after wiping three times for good measure (both ass and brow).

As you walk back, you begin to feel ecstatic. Both the serpent and the spider are either dead or dormant. Soon, Brother Caffeine will do to your bowels what that one asshole who never learned to cram does to the entire campus during finals. You look forward to the inevitable sensation of a freshly-birthed galaxy ready to burst out of you with no resistance. This is immaculate conception.

Tinder End-Game

So Tinder is going well and I'm beginning to consider what my end-game is. I think the pleasure utility gained from banging as many randoms as possible with as little effort as possible is already beginning to enter the zone of diminishing marginal returns.

I think my goal right now is going to be to develop a steady rotation of friend with benefits type girls. That way, I can have pretty regular sex with a diverse group of girls with little effort who I get along with and who will maybe do my laundry and stuff while maintaining my somewhat fabricated aura of mystique that keeps them from getting bored with me.

I have 4 regulars right now (1 of which wants me to meet her parents and isn't as attractive as the other 3, so she'll be going once I get some more regulars). I have 5 girls in the to-meet pipeline right now. Based on historical data, I predict that 3-4 will flake. I also have been meeting girls on work nights, but want to stop because I like sleep.

I haven't had any attrition that wasn't caused by me doing something enormously douchey yet, but let's assume an attrition rate (they get bored of me or die or whatever) of 1 girl per month. Assuming I can add 1 girl per week to rotation and the end-goal is to have 14 reliable girls (seeing a girl twice a month is sustainable in the mid-term, I think), it would take me...

4(current) + 13(additions) - 3.5(attrition) = 13.5 goal close enough. let's assume one is an amputee

It would take me ~3.5 months to reach my goal. Let's call it 4 to be conservative. I realize I'm not calculating attrition properly, but it's more conservative and less work, so fuck it.
I'll be gone for ~6 months in October and I have no idea what the retention rate will be. Let's call it 40%.

So, March 2015: (.4)(14)= ~5 girls and we're back where we started more or less. I'll be better in every way a year from now though so let's say I can add 2 girls per week to rotation now. But I'll also probably be working and studying more... fuck it, 1 per week assumption holds. So does 1/month attrition

>>>
5 [current(03/2015)] + 9(additions) - (1/mo attrition) = 14 goal
2.25 weeks to goal assuming no attrition
attrition: 2.25 girls. Now need 11.25 additions

I don't know how the fuck to do this equation accurately, but let's go with this:
5 [current(03/2014)] + 11.25(additions) - 2.8(1/mo attrition) = 13.45 goal. still fucking an amputee. double amputee this time

>>> ~3 months from return to goal rotation: 06/2015 target date

Hold me to it. Watch me be married by then. lawl jk

BartenderArtSchoolGirl Raped Me, I Think

Art meets up with BartenderArtSchoolGirl (hereon referred to as BASG). Chick's cute. No catfish. Skinny, cute face, nice hips and legs, decent personality. We have a few beers at her place while watching some dumbass comedian on youtube and walk to a bar. Have a few drinks and have some food. $8 for an awesome slice of pizza, a PBR, and a Jameson shot. She teaches the Texas Toast. Walk to another bar for some more drinks. Had some nice hipster coctails.

Make out a little between bar 1 and bar 2. Walk back to her place after bar 2. Shake her faggot impure mut dog the fuck off my leg. Start going at it. This girl's gotta do yoga or some shit because that ass is like the perfect fucking consistency. It's all muscle, but it's super squeezable. Like those gay little Easter duck candies combined with a stress ball (the good kind, not the gay foam ones). Fuck yeah.

She gives me some head and next thing I know, this bitch is crying. I half assedly try to console her, but kind of just let shit run its course and she goes into the bathroom. I go outside for a smoke. Contemplate leaving. Decide I don't want another DWI at this point in life and go back in.

She's standing there butt ass naked looking at herself in the mirror. She starts apologizing to me profusely and jumps me. I'm like... aite. Chick's really aggressive. And I'm normally the aggressive one. She actually says, 'I know you wanna be dominant but just let me do this.' I'm like, sure, whatever.

She's on top of me now. Fucking biting my chest and shit. I fumble for a rubber in the pocket of my shorts lying a few feet away. Before I know it, this chick has inserted me into herself with no rubber. I think, damn that is a nice vaginal canal bb gurl. But I'm immediately super suspicious why she wants to fuck bareback. I know my genes are prime and she knows it too. She doesn't seem like she has money problems and needs to get knocked up by a provider. Did she just get a disease and wants to exact revenge on men? I push her off and put on a condom as she discourages me. The look in her eyes is the embodiment of disappointment.

I let her ride me for a bit. Chick's aggressive. She's biting my chest. Fine. Then, she fucking punches me in the kidney and chest. I was drunk and only remembered this next morning when tiny little bruises showed up in the shapes of her tiny little itty bitty art school fisties. She takes off the condom and goes down on me. I'm like aite, fine. Fair. Got tired of it and flip her over for banging. Can't find a fresh condom. Don't feel like going out to my car for one. I pick the somewhat used original condom up off the floor and stretch it over my cock. It's a fucking travesty. I say fuck it, rip it off, and go bareback. This was a bad decision. I make lots of those. Fuck you, I'm working on it. At least I get tested regularly and almost certainly can't get pregnant.

Pounding ensues for a while and I erupt gentleman juice all over her back while squeezing that ass that's gotta be made out of some combination of HoHos and Astroturf (which doesn't sound so good now that I imagine it but whatever fuck you). She gets cleaned up and is in a weird mood but won't admit it. Goes into her living room and dances around to hipster music by herself with a beer. Cuddles the shit out of her dog. I lye in her bed and try to look up where white people go to get tested around the new place I'm staying. Last time I went to a Planned Parenthood, I got kicked out after I couldn't stop laughing when Beyonce's "All The Single Ladies" came on the speakers as I was sitting in a lobby with 6 knocked-up Latina chicks.

I ask her what the fuck her deal is. At this point, it was agreed I was staying the night. Oh, and her dad's a pastor lawl. I'm starting to see a pattern. She eventually says she doesn't want me to stay because she likes me but she feels used and like a slut and probably wouldn't want to see me again if I stay. Oh, and she wants to go to Church with her pastor dad in the morning because bla bla bla. Says she wants to meet again and insists she'll pay for everything this time (I pay for girls' shit whatever fuck you.)

I tell her how she's not a slut and all that shit with 30% conviction, drink some water for 15 minutes and leave. These bitches are trying to get me arrested I swear to god. Honestly, I feel kind of used. I would have seen this girl again; we had a good time most of the night. I was totally fine to drive, but still maybe a few ticks over the limit and there WAS a chance of getting arrested for DUI. And I already have one DWI and a bunch of misdemeanors and got lucky as fuck once when cops pulled me over drunk and the dude was a bro and pretty blatantly told me to just drive straight home, drive slowly, and cut that shit out.

But anyway, this chick values her frail emotions over me potentially having a seriously shitty thing happen. I don't know whether I even want to see her again for anything other than just sex. Know what, she might not even get sex from me again because fuck her.

Kind of starting to question what the fuck I'm doing with my life. Even more than usual

Have my abortion bb gurl

So my Tinder strategy involves rapidly right swiping everyone without even looking and then filtering out the ugs who I end up matching with. If I'm bored enough, I'll message them instead of blocking them. Here's an excerpt from a conversation I had with one:

Art (11:15am): Yo guess what
Elizabeth (11:15am): Chicken butt?
A (11:16 am): Fuck
E (11:17 am): Now?
A (11:19 am): No I'm at work doing important Facebook and YouTube things
E (11:20 am): Wow, aren't you productive..
A (11:22 am): Makes time fly I don't give a ahit
E (11:22 am): What do you do?
A (11:22 am): Investment firm
E (11:29 am): Sounds like a blast..
A (11:30 am): We eat soup and watch golf all day its aite
E (11:44 am): So is that how you want to spend your life?

A (11:57 am): I'd likebto spend it with u babe winkyface
E (44m ago): Lol nice line but you may want to try harder than that..
A (42m ago): Anything 4 u bb gurl
E (41 m ago): Uh huh sure..
A (38 m ago): Have my abortion bb gurl
E (37 m ago): Excuse me? There will be none of that. There are no babies in my near future.
A (35 m ago): Ya because they will be in a glass jar or w.e they put aborted kiddos

E (35m ago): See no. I'm outfitted with this lovely thing that inhibits me from getting preggo in the first place.
A (35m ago): A butt
E (33m ago): No an IUD dumbass. My butt is a hard limit.
A (23 m ago): Soft limit
E (22 m ago): No my butt is one way hole.
A (21 m ago): Ur in 4 a shock(lol) when u turn 40 and go for a chexkup
E (20 m ago): I've already had two colonoscipies and two endoscopies. I know the drill.
A (12 m ago): Oh shit

A( 12m ago): U know how girls decorate their grad caps
A (12 m ago): So u decorat ur poobag
E (7 m ago): Nah mine's probably gonna be a quote or plain.

 This went on for a while until I got bored. It baffles me why a woman would bother to reply to someone acting like that, but I'm glad that they do.

Mexican North Face Sunday School Teacher, Whiskey, and Lame Friends

So check it out. I meet up with this cute Mexican chick after work. Drove 30 min to meet her. She turns out to be a cutie and pretty cool. Has "fuck me" eyes and tells me to tell her roomies (mediocre). I'm an old friend from high school. Doesn't mention which high school we supposedly went to together. Maybe she doesn't think to cover her bases. Maybe she thinks I'm not the type to remember. Take pride in getting you some dick, guurl! Dem roomies jelly

We drink whiskey and talk and fuck twice. She tells me there’s a sweet burger joint I need to try, so we drive to some dive bar. 'Twas sweet indeed. Medium rare wit all dem feeexins homie (shoutout Kenny P). A good sign a burger's gonna be good is when they ask you how you want it done. And you best say medium rare at the most you heathen.

Oh yeah, she mentioned she was a Sunday School teacher, which I thought was funny and I Was happy about because that's a new flag for me. She was the kind that believes in the father, the son, and the holy spirit and all that jazz. Which is the kind that's cool with banging dudes she met on a smartphone app earlier that day. I'm coo wit it.

She says she wants to meet up with her friends at some bar and I say fine (Mistake #1: It was late and I had to be at work at 8:30 am. I already had food, sex, and liquor and had nothing to gain from going to another bar). At this point, it’s agreed that I’ll sleep at her place (closer to work than mine) and drive to work (protip: keep a spare white shirt in your car). And pay $50 for fucking parking like the chump that I am. I drive us to some bar in Evanston. Who the fuck even goes to Evanston. Isn't that for like retirees who made poor life choices and couldn't make Florida work? Whatever.

I was drunk and in a good mood having just eaten an awesome burger when we rolled up to the bar. I have a box of surgical gloves in my door side holder thing and decided to put on a pair for reasons I can't recall. I probably thought it was hilarious. I still sort of do.

Her friends turn out to be a couple. My chick is 22 and has her shit somewhat together. She's a manager at the North Face store and goes to school (and her bedroom is decked out in North Face shit. She gives me a North Face protein shaker when I ask for water for the ride). Her girlfriend is 25 and works retail and her boyfriend is 31. Don’t know what he does, but he’s a fucking loser feminist in skinny jeans and a hipster beard.

I can smell his condescending pheromones. He's upset that I own a collared shirt and he does not. He is, for some reason, very displeased with the fact that I accessorize with rubber gloves and calls me disrespectful. I tell him he's just upset I'm a better hipster than he is. I make a 25% effort to pretend to care about them and drink my boredom away.

It’s 2:30 am now and I tell NorthFace, 'Let’s go, I’m tired.' She disappears for 10 minutes with her girlfriend while I play bags with FaggotBoyfriend and hit on 2 girls at the bar. She comes back and tells me I can’t come back to hers because her friends think I’m an asshole. The look in her eyes is pure heartbreak. Or disgust. Whichever works. FaggotBoyfriend chimes in that she can do better and stands in front of me trying to be a shield or some shit despite me making no physical advances whatsoever. 

I push him out of the way. Not to get to her, but because I don't need this guy chest bumping me and getting hippie slime on my tailored English shirt. He trys to play tough. I laugh at FaggotBoyfriend, who is smaller than me and has clearly never hit a man. She says I didn't pay her enough attention throughout the night and was too assertive with the bartender (ugly) when buying HER a fucking drink. Yes, I pay for shit when I go out with girls. Fuck you, I don't care.

These are clearly things that FaggotBoyfriend and his girl came to a conclusion on and relayed to NorthFace while I was busy drinking and laughing at people play Dance Dance Revolution. At this point, Art Huxtable no longer cares about the situation at hand, says whatever, and has to drive home 30 minutes like a fucking chump, slow as fuck too so as not to get arrested. I throw the doggy bag with her leftover burger she left in my car at a tree and chug the leftover water in her (mine) North Face protein shaker. 

No before bed sex. No morning sex. No addition to FWB rotation. I’m never fucking meeting a girl’s friends again.

Art Huxtable Joins Tinder

I just finished my second-to-last semester of undergrad in Chicago, where I was living in an apartment with roomies. I'm leaving for about 6 months in October and won't be attending the Summer semester, so I moved back to my mom's house in the suburbs for the time being. My days became boring. I would take the Metra to my internship in Chicago every morning where I spent the majority of my time dicking around on message boards, watching Hulu, starting arguments on CNN's Facebook page, and eating free soup and salad. I'll sometimes pop a couple Xannies on the train to work and straight up not remember most of the day. But I'm pretty sure I have a good time.

This has, more or less, been my modus operandi throughout all three of my internships. I did have a low point at a real estate development internship where I was blackout drunk on Black Box (the Colt 45 of wine) by 2pm, ended up at the Illinois Art Institute at Chicago, met one of my current weed dealers and a steady lay in a blacked out state (separate people), ended up at a Friday's and then at a Tilted Kilt, and had an old fat man attempt to fondle my balls while giving me a ride to my car. I somehow still managed to land a full time offer at the place I'm at now. Yep, this fucking degenerate will likely be managing your retirement funds in a few years. 

I'd be in the driveway by 6pm, done working out by 8pm, and usually in bed by 11. With no classes to study for (not that I ever did much studying) and nothing to do living in the Wonder Bread suburbs, I decided to get on Tinder. I've been on it for about a week today and am now a self-proclaimed expert and enthusiast. I will recount my experiences, strategies, and general musings. I'll also write about whatever else the fuck I want to write about on this blog because I enjoy writing and I have a ton of free time at work.

Let's start out by explaining what Tinder is for the Barney Rubbles:

Tinder is GrubHub for vaginal canal. You turn on your phone's GPS, connect your FaceBook account, select a few pictures that make you look like you aren't a complete schmuck, and you're flooded with the profiles of local females (or males if you're into that). You swipe right (or tap the heart) if you want to connect with them. If they right swipe you, the messaging capability is enabled.

It's pretty well understood that this is a hookup app, but some girls will insist they're just looking for friends (lol). You'll even stumble across pictures of bitches with their hubbies or whatever. Even swiped right on one bitch in a wedding dress. None of these chicks are looking for friends. They are filthy liars. I've met some real cool girls on here, but this does not change their status as filthy liars.

Now some girls will be pretty fucking up-front with what they're looking for. I almost prefer the liars because they're more fun to transition from right swiping to doggy banging. I don't know. I like a challenge. I also think there's a subconscious caveman gene that tells me that the girl who's easy has genes that are inferior to those of the girl who guards her eggs. I've stopped trying to understand why I like what I like long ago and just go with the flow these days.

I think I'll wrap this up as my intro post.