Plenty of Nothing

My dear, dear perverts.

I have a confession to make.



In a moment of weakness (and intense boredom) I succumbed to a widespread infliction of laziness and sexual frustration.

I tried online dating.

I'm not proud of it. I have always upheld the fact that I am a gal who thrives on the thrill of the chase - but let's be serious here people, we all have our fucking low points.



I maintain the fact that I am a rampant jungle cat, prowling the streets of this fair city to mind fuck, mangle and manipulate any man I so choose. But sometimes a gal gets tired.

Really fucking tired.

Let's just say baby-making as a relationship deal breaker throws one onto the backbench of the dating scene. I longed for a forum in which people's expectations were thought out and upfront, so as to avoid further fuck-ups.



That place is not Internet dating.

Yes, they do require you to condense your personality and life expectations in less then 500 words. But that does not mean that requirement is met.

Let's just say I learned a lot about how easy it is to judge people on proper spelling and grammar.



Don't get me wrong people, I am by no means perfect. But this was the equivalent of throwing a cheetah into a 5x5 cage. I became lethargic, constantly disappointed and increasingly bitter.

You heard me, more bitter.

I went on four fucking dates in one week (no one can say I took this endeavor lightly) with four mildly attractive and generally likable men ranging from ages 23-32. There was less chemistry in each of them than an eighth grade science class.



Now blame it on my youth, but since the day I lost my fucking virginity it has been a fairly steady stream of chemistry ridden encounters. Now, they weren't all perfect. Some were intellectual connections, and some were just pretty men with little brains. The long of the short of it is that there has always been someone that I've found interesting enough to see naked.

And then all of the sudden, zilch, nada, nothing. I was swimming through an ocean of dead fish.



Needless to say, I freaked the fuck out and took drastic action.

Now, I'm not knocking the whole endeavour. I have met numerous people who have found successful working relationships on the Internet, ranging from long term commitments to rowdy fuckbuddies. But let's just be clear here kiddies, that shit is not for me.

If I'm going to accidentally insult someone, it's going to be to their face.



So, in conclusion - if you're looking for someone to sprinkle with ounces of commitment-ridden goodness or just some slutty fluids, Internet dating may be right for you.

If you're looking for some fucking entertainment, get up off your ass and head down to the local meat market. You've gotta fight for your food, just like everybody else.

'DILF' of the Week

Now, I've had a massive fem-boner for Woody Harrelson since the Cheers days, but never have I been so simultaneously turned on and horrified as when watching Natural Born Killers. I was aroused and emotionally scarred at the same time. How many dudes can manage that?

Bye Bye Baby

So, here's the latest thing that's making me as angry as a rhino in heat.

Babies.



Yup, you heard me. Those little balls of youthful fat. Those "godsends", those accidents, those bundles of joy that everybody's so freakin' ga-ga over (pun intended). They're cock blocking me.

How could an infant stop me from having sex you ask? Excellent question, I have no fucking idea how it happened - but it did. I am officially un-do-able because I don't want to have babies.



I kid you not perverts, I am literally being denied sex because children aren't in my five year plan. Sounds pretty fucking ridiculous right? Well, it is. But - do we all remember how good I get along with them thirty-something year olds?

Of course we do, my life is fucking marked with permanent ink because of my love of the old dudes. Even when I'm ready to let 'em go and accept my social obligations, they keep fucking chasin' me down. I swear to god, I secrete a pheromone that smells like beer and red meat.



Well here's the thing about them thirty-something year olds, some of them want to have babies.

"But, no!" You exclaim, "surely not the deadbeats you attract!" Oh yes kiddies, even some of them.

So here's my question, when in a person's life should they have to choose between a life of beer, red meat, independence, and youthful genitals and a life of long-term commitment, biological satisfaction, and (most likely unrealistic) idealism.



Now, I don't have the answer because I sure as hell don't have to choose anytime soon. But I'm gonna say you should probably be moving toward one end or the other before your thirty-five. The thirties have always been the period where you have to make this decision. You either stick to your guns and keep living the glorious life of debauchery you did in your twenties, or you get your shit together. I'm not gonna say one is better then the other, but you inevitably have to choose.

Now I realize that men have more time to do the baby-making then women, but I think thirty-five should be the cut off for both, so as to keep some consistency and make everything way fucking easier.



and if you do choose the mowed lawn, white-picket fence, screaming kiddies option, leave us twenty-year olds the fuck alone.

'DILF' of the Week

Pete Murray. Dude's a freakin' lumberjack with a guitar. And he's Australian. His music also makes the average woman's ovaries implode (from what they tell me).

Porn for the People

Ok, I have a question.

Why is the Internet telling me to wait for sex?



I mean, here's the world wide web right? Full of heated sexual imagery. There are definitely more porn sites then there are wikipedia entries. The Internet is porn, porn is the Internet. So why are various articles telling me to WAIT. In big-ass, bold letters like that, as if I'm at an intersection and there's a stop sign in front of me, halting the progression of my sex life.

Now, you're probably wondering why I'm perusing the Internet for sex/dating advice and let it be know that I am not proud of it. I like to think of myself in a strict advisor position. But the fact of the matter is, I'm a little out of practice.



and when I say a little, I kind of mean a lot. I have been out of the dating game, and I'm not really sure I knew the rules to begin with. So here's my main question, the third date rule - still a stand by?

Well here's what the Internet tells me - WAITwaitWAITwaitWAIT. Stuff like "it's worth the wait" "make an emotional connection before a physical one" "don't rush things" blah blah blah blah blah.



So here I am, standing in the midst of an incredibly hypersexualized society and these people (who are apparently worth listening to seeing as they get paid to write these articles) are telling me to not have sex.

There's even a dude who say that women should wait 90 days before gettin' groovy (see: Steve Harvey's 90 Day Rule). Uh, really? I wasn't aware that the 21st Century was the new 1950. Holy fuck people, since when can you not have an emotional connection while having sex? I always figured it was one of the most intimate things you could do with a person.



Frankly, I think having sex is an excellent way to get to know someone. How many fucking secrets can you hide when you're naked?

and don't get me wrong, sex can be unemotional and unemotional sex is rad but apparently you can not have sex on a third date AND have a meaningful interaction. According to the Internet there is only meaningless sex (Porn) or meaningful sexless relationships.

Fuck the Internet.



New rule: go with your gut. And if your gut happens to be your genitals, there ain't nothing wrong with that.

Also, fuck Steve Harvey. Who the hell does he think he is telling me wait 90 days. Asshole.

'DILF' of the Week

It's defs not Steve Harvey.

It's Royal Wood! I saw him at Rifflandia two weekends past and the dude's fuckin' dreamy. Yes, you heard it, dreamy. I do not use that word lightly friends. He's got a wicked voice, and lyrics that made my cold, cold heart melt. He's also a snappy dresser.

and yes, I met him. I was exhausted and did my best impression of a "differently-abled" person. Nbd, I got skills.

Have Sex. Be Awesome.

If you’re anything like me, every 6 months or so you get this stupid little man in the back of your mind who starts screaming. On day your life is peachy keen and the next you can’t stop from fixating on the annoying constant scream: “who am I?”

Yes, that man in our heads is a prick people. A lame ass prick who has nothing better to do then watch Woody Allen movies and brood. The little man in our heads is wearing thick, square rimmed class, reading Dostoevsky, and sipping an americano secretly drowned in sugar.



The man in our heads is a douche.

A loud douche.

But despite his bullshit philosophy degree we all get sucked into his question, because deep down none of us have any fucking idea. We might know what we like, we might even know what makes us happy, but no way in hell do we know who we are.
and this little man, being the pervert that he is, knows that the only way we can gain that desirable identity is by fucking more people.



That’s it folks, sad to say it, but you are who you fuck. Although we may like to think that the development of our personality is due to some existential molding process, some combination of knowledge and wealth of experience, who we are is essentially determined by who we sleep with.

Yep, that’s it. We become cooler people by fucking more people. It’s like every person you have coitus with gives you some part of themselves - and I ain’t just talking ‘bout their genitals.



Now this, “exchange” can probably be done without sex, but realistically the effects wouldn’t be as quick or dramatic. I.e. you take more from people you’re in a relationship with then people who you are in a friendship with (unless you fuck your friends consistently, then power to you and your multi-dimensional personality).

My point here is that human beings are basically these big, meaty, weird animals that suck up personality through their genitals. The reason you had no concrete identity when you were a pre-teen is because your hormones were so fucked that they were trying to suck up everything (and probably not successfully sucking up anything). Ipso facto that weird goth phase you went through. That was just your penis/vagina going schizo and trying to carve a personality out of those Anne Rice novels you loved so much.


Seriously, didn’t some fucking Wiseman say one time that we’re defined by our experience?

Yep, experience. Get me?

That’s it.

Fuck more. Be cooler.

'DILF' of the Week

How the fuck have we not come upon this sooner. Have you watched Californication? This man is God. Everything about him is perfect. Need I whisper softly his sweet name? David Duchovny is the King of Deadbeats. I would gladly grow a pair of balls and model myself after him.

Realistically I will do just that, without the balls. The example himself, lots o' sex makes you lots o' interesting.

Here's to One Year of Smut

Well, hey derr Bitches! Guess what day it is?

They day they invented the condom? No sir! Sit kiddies, and I will tell you a story.



A year ago today, a young woman, let's call her "our hero", sat down in front of her little laptop and stared at the Internet. She browsed the web, searching, for something to peak her interest, and perhaps even described her plea. But alas she found nothing, not a single voice willing to give it to her straight.

So kiddies, what's a girl to do? After all, shit only happens if you make it happen.



So she made this shit happen, this little doctrine of debauchery, this pervert petition, this smut statement. It's the anniversary of your reason to live people, The Prowl is officially one year old! Rejoice and be thankful for the awesomeness that is the shit I say.



And now to focus on a topic not worth celebrating. There is a syndrome going around affecting dudes in their early twenties. Let's call it, "Chick-Dick Syndrome". Laugh away fuckers, but this shit is serious. I've been listening to the same fucking story from eighty different chicks.

There are dudes out there who don't want sex all the time. Some of them in fact, the worst afflicted by Chick-Dick Syndrome, never want sex at all.

I'm serious people, there is a whole legion of dudes out there who only want to cuddle.



This is my fucking worst nightmare. Worse then zombies, worse then Dinosaurs roaming the earth, even worse the Cheerleading-Cannibals.



The worst part is, as of right now there is no known cure for Chick-Dick Syndrome. It might be coming out of the closet, but we have yet to test the theory.

So watch out ladies, you think you want a man who loves to cuddle but you don't. You want a dude who can fulfill his biological purpose, trust me. If you don't heed my word you'll find yourself with a bad case of blue-vag - if you catch my drift.



And as for you fellas, for godsake stay manly. Nobody likes a clit-tease.

'DILF' of the Week

Here you have it ladies and gents, the manliest of men, the majesty of macho, his grizzled holiness: Clint Eastwood. If you want to know the reason I am the way I am, it's because I grew up watching his movies. Watch a western, grow some balls.

Straight as a Bent Arrow

Something went wrong in the universe, perverts.

Some giant nebula swerved off course and the fabric of time bent in such a way to alter the makeup of our tiny minuscule world, and whenever this happens something bad comes out of it. Crocs - metorite, Celine Dion - Space/time flex, cheese whiz - asteroid off course.


One of these disasters occurred the instant I was born. Whether it was a solar flare or a black hole, something wrongly caused me to come out straight.

I am convinced I should've been a lesbian.

(Everybody I went to high school with are as well, ammirite?)

Whether it's my love for plaid (that I'm too afraid to explore), short partially shaved hairstyles or witty queer nonfiction something went very, very wrong. I should be elbow deep in vag by now people, but alas I am toe deep in stubble.



Aside from a universal miscalculation, I've determined that the reason I came out straight is because of my inherent laziness. Cause let's face it peeps, dudes are easy. All you need is a pair of tits, and not even big ones for that matter. Hell, there are even dudes out there who don't even require a lady with all her limbs. Men are sluts.

Women on the other hand require some skills. You have to be witty, you have to look nice and you have to hide how creepy you actually are (at least until they like you enough to get all doe-eyed and forget that you have any flaws).



So, in short, all though I have all the makings of an awesome lesbian in my wicked demeanour, I'm just not sure I could cut it out in the vag-jungle. I'm like a lioness that's got all tubby on her consistent diet of hairy man flesh. I ain't fit enough to go running after those slick lady-gazelles.

Depressing, inn't?

Is it just me or does being gay also make you inherently cooler? I think because homosexuality has become so widely accepted in polite society that all the sudden, like being African American, it's cool to be queer. Lets think seriously here ladies and gents, have you ever met a homosexual who was getting less tail then you?



The answer is no. Because gay people get laid all the time because they're cooler then straight people. They don't have any lasting prudity inherited from their parents and their parent's parent's in the fifties, because they were too busy getting laid to learn that it's not polite to talk about one's genitals.

I apparently also failed to learn that lesson either, but I'm not gay so it just makes me a pervert.

Perverts.

'DILF' of the Week

In light of all the political excitement going around, I offer you another type of excitement (winky winky). I mean seriously, if all politicians were as eye-fuck worthy as Justin Trudeau, voter apathy would fail to exist. There you go Canada, I've solved all your political problems, elect a hot Prime Minister and everybody will be happy with the government.

The Asshole of the Internet

I'd like to make an apology. An apology to all those who read my blog posts and giggle when I say thinks like "douchehole" and have their hearts swell when they see the DILF of the Week.

I've been a horrible indulgence. I'm like the alcohol that isn't there at that a really shitty party when you need it most.

and I know, that shitty party is your life.



But fear not deadbeat-lovers! I am back and swelling with nothing but tales of debauchery to tell you.

This week we will discuss Porn.

That's right folks, the back alley of the Internet super-highway. Those gazillions of websites not-so-hidden in the cracks of society.

and, let's be serious, your web history.

Watching porn, like masturbation, is something that everybody does or has done. If you haven't you are a fucking liar. It's right there, in the open, for all to google search, you have done it, I know you have. The real point of interest, however, concerns those individuals who do it regularly.



That's most of you.

The Porn Industry, being what it is is like a fucking jungle of individual preference. I don't know what it was like in the 70s (other then hairy), but with the invention of the Internet I feel like shit just got weird. There was all these things that you'd always wanted to secretly jerk of to (or just watch out of pure disgust/amazement) and all the sudden this thing was invented that allowed you do it, in the privacy of your own home.

That's right perverts, back in the day you had to leave your house to get porn. You had to rent it, you had to buy it, and you maybe even had to make small talk with that creepy guy behind the counter. Those were hard times, folks.



Us young folk are privileged, we don't have to own a trench coat and frequent seedy establishments to get our rocks off, we can watch a man fucking a horse, or a dolphin, or Siamese twins are whatever the hell you're into whenever and wherever we want to. Living room, bathroom, even a park bench. Technology is a marvelous thing.

Is it just me or does anybody else long for the days when being a pervert was a big secret and you had be part of some special club with other perverts and sneak around to get to your big secret pervert location.



Here's what I'm saying to you genital lovers, being a pervert just ain't as romantic as it used to be.

These days we're all perverts, every single one of us. Why, just the other day I had a conversation with my roommate about our porn preferences. We both watch porn, and we like it. It is no secret.

Hell, it's not even interesting.

Think about it people, what if we all had to hide who we really were, instead of all this high self esteem and figuring we can wait around to find someone who'll "love us for who we really are". Maybe it might be nice to have to sneak around to get your rocks off or to lie to your girlfriend/boyfriend about your secret fetish till your married and they're too dedicated to leave you. Might make it all more exciting, instead the usual just wankin' it and going back to eating your Cheetos.

You know who you are.

'DILF' of the Week

Alright, so he's an ugly motherfucker but when I watch Phillip Glenister play Gene Hunt in the BBC series 'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes' all my anti-feminist ovaries are thinking are "what a man, what a man, what a mighty fine man". Yep, we all love assholes, even me, but I keep it to my fantasies.

Keep your vag for men who will respect you, ladies.

One Man Band

After talking with my room-mates, I came to the shocking and sudden realization that something must be done.

Someone must stand up, against all opposition, with courage and valour.

Someone must shout verses off a silver tounge, and make the people listen.



Someone must talk about masturbation.

That's right kiddies, what catholic school taught you not to do. Jerkin' the chicken, coaxing the clam, preparing the sausage, seasoning the taco. That thing that everybody does and everybody still feels a little guilty about.

Yes we're all sexually liberated, but yet we all still feel a little bad when engaging in some private funtimes solamente.



So here I am, sitting with my two intelligent, beautiful roomates, listening to them tell me that they "just don't". "You're kidding.." I say "I mean, we all feel weird about it first. But soon enough you'll become best friends with that hand of yours". "No" they say, "it just doesn't 'do-it' for me."

LIES bitches. You're all fucking lying to yourself. The spaghetti monster gave a two hands people, one hand to surf for porno, press play on your smut remote, or turn the page of your erotic novela and the other to diddle yourself with. Letr's face facts her people, that shit is natural. Baby's do it IN THE WOMB, which means it was probably the first thing you ever did that consciously caused you pleasure.



Thats right bitches, not your first snack cup of chocolate pudding, not your first teddy bear - the first time you wanked.

Warms the heart don't it?

Aside from the fact that you should just do it because it feels good, another reason you weirdos should start touching yourselves is because how the hell do you expect other people to make you feel good if you can't even do it yourself?

How can he find your clitorus, if you don't even know where is.

How can you teach her to give you a handjob that doesn't hurt, if are too afraid to grab your own shaft.



Masturbation is also the cure to everything. Feeling stressed? Masturbate. Had a bad day? Masturbate. Feeling lonely? Masturbate. Nothing on TV? Masturbate.

So stop feeling guilty and start feeling awesome

'DILF' of the Week

Speaking of awesome, you all know NPH. I know all you fuckers love How I Met Your Mother just as much a I do and say Barney Stinson quotes all the time then giggle amongst yourselves like the bunch of losers you are. So here's to Neil Patrick Harris for inspiring us to do something so lame that it makes us feel cool.

A Knuckle-Sandwich for Mother Nature

Just a warning, the following rant will probably be more appealing to the ladies.

I was going to write a post about how much work university is making me do and how it leaves little time for sex and how shitty that is yadda yadda yadda when I realized:

I was suffering from the worst fucking case of pms I have ever had.



My head was throbbing, I was way too hot all the time - my body temperature was that of a fucking volcano, I was so fucking exhausted that I couldn't sleep and my emotional state was like that of a Venus fly trap (if you got to close I wanted to castrate you). Overall I was suffering from a weird mix of wanting someone to cuddle me and wanting to gouge people's eyes out.

The fact that one week every month I feel like this and am still expected to function in everyday society is fucking criminal. Women suffering from pms should be given the same privileges that any disabled person does. Someone should take concise notes for me in the lectures I miss because I'm involuntarily napping and I should have a seeing-eye dog with a sign saying "My master is suffering from Pre-menstrual symptoms, please don't get too close and keep idiotic musings to a minimum".



Women suffering from this extreme mood disorder should also be provided with male shaped androids that will dispense limitless compliments and affection as well as not get offended when they attempt to verbally (and maybe physically) tear it to shreds.

We should also be granted a week long get out of jail free card for any hurtful or relationship ruining things that may be said. Yes, I may sound irrational but all this word vomit makes perfect sense to me. You don't understand why I'm crying? Well neither do I!

The cherry on top of the pms ass cake was that the crazy jumble of idiotic hormones somehow caused my sex drive go down.

In short, I didn't want the one thing that pretty much always makes me happy. What kind of twisted karma-stab is that? Was I Hitler in another life?



The worst thing is I have no fucking advice for the rest of you pms sufferers other then try and avoid seeing people. Maybe we can all take a twist on the 'ol Amazon classic where we keep the tit and loose the ovaries.

'DILF' of the Week

I've recently gotten back into scrubs in order to better avoid the reading of literature written before the 16th century. John C McGinley, who plays Dr. Cox (I'd like to play doctor with his cox ifyouknowwhatimean), may have actually started my love of DILF's. That wonderful mix of anger, emotional issues and a general unwillingness to communicate really got my young motor revving. So here's to 'ol Johnny C, for making me the monster you all know and love today.