Taking A Break

The Vassar Comikaze has been put on hiatus.

As much as I’d like to keep posting, I’m too busy with finals to write anything that would be worth your time. New posts will start going up as soon as the fall semester begins (end of August).

Thanks for your comments, for reading, and most importantly, thanks for letting me bitch to you three times a week.

See you in August.

Vegans Are Douche Bags

written by the vassar comikaze


When I was six years old, my grandpa took me and my friend out to the school yard for ground ball practice. We pounded our fists into our gloves, eager to work on our fielding. After about two minutes, our enthusiasm turned to sheer horror as my grandpa hit baseballs at us with all his might. They ricocheted off the concrete school yard’s surface and whizzed past our heads at mach 3.

Another time, he pulled me aside from a family gathering and said, “You know what I need? Some nice, crisp, iceberg lettuce. Have you ever craved lettuce?” Needless to say, my grandpa is a pretty nutty guy. I don’t think there’s anyone else in the world that has the capacity to crave lettuce… except of course for vegans.

I haven’t met many vegans, but the one’s I have met are self-righteous douche bags. I’ve consulted some friends on the matter, and they too only know vegans to be ass-clowns. Vegans care about animal rights, support local farmers and eat healthy: Why is it that they, of all people, are consistently such royal pricks?

The problem with Vegans is simple - they are completely out of touch with normal people. In order to get a meal that meets their requirements, they either eat at a vegan restaurants or shop at a vegan specialty store. They go to these places almost every day. As a result, they spend far too much time with other rich, white vegans. They then get it in their head that what they’re doing is right and what the rest of the world does is wrong.

To “enlighten” others, they make pamphlets such as this, only succeeding in demonstrating how out of touch they are. I don’t care if you’re selling hundred dollar bills for a nickel: There is no way you’re going to sell anything (especially something as unappealing as a vegan lifestyle) if you show potential customers images of chickens being force fed and pigs collapsing in their own puke. Maybe you’d realize that if you interacted with normal people once in a while; meat-eating people.

Instead of making me want to become a vegan, this pamphlet made me hate vegans. It’s vegans that showed me the horrifying images and Mcdonalds that gave me a medium thirteen with a coke. Besides, it’s not as if eating chicken means condemning ol’ Clucky to a long, painful death. If anything, it’ll be short and excruciating.

There is no way I’ll ever become a vegan. The mere thought of eating tofu for the rest of my life is enough to give me stomach cancer. I’m a man - I like to eat steak.

Proper Headiquette

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Have You Seen This Bike?

written by the vassar comikaze

On my way back to Vassar after spring break, I decided I was going to buy a bike. I figured it would help me accomplish my goal for the semester; to stop being such a lazy bastard and live an active, healthy lifestyle. I’d cut down on smoking, bike over to the gym every other day, eat more green things… the usual bs I feed myself. My parents liked the idea of me doing something, so they had no problem buying the bike for me.

Unfortunately, my family’s obsession with getting the best possible deal led us to Wal-Mart. Though the smiley face on TV may tell you otherwise, Wal-Mart does not have a great selection. There were four bikes on the rack (conveniently located in the back off the store) and two of those bikes were pink. This gave me two options; the black one or the silver one. The silver one wasn’t without its charms, but it had one of those really uncomfortable seats. The ones that give you back spasms after two minutes of use and look vaguely like a jet black weewee. The black bike was my only option.

In retrospect, I probably should have tested out ol’ blacky before buying it. I say this because it makes funny sounds when I pedal, and the gears always stick. Oh yeah, the right break doesn’t work either: I found that out while speeding towards a busy intersection. I hit the side of a mini-van at full speed, causing me to fly off the bike, flip through the air, and land on a ten foot statue of Ernest Borgnine. It’s a good thing I had my undersized helmet and orange chest protector on at the time… otherwise I would have looked like an idiot.

Aside from the fact that it doesn’t work, the bike works just fine. It’s perfect for riding over to the Acrop for a 2:00am omelet, and theoretically, it could take me to the gym any time I want. I’ve been real busy doing stuff (nothing) lately, so I haven’t had the chance to head over. I’m hoping to bike there by the end of the week, but by then I may not have a bike any more. In fact, there’s a good chance that it’ll be gone the next time I want to ride.

If you look at the above photograph carefully, you’ll notice that my bike isn’t locked. Until today, I had the combo set to - - - -, the lock’s default sequence. I stuck with the four dash default because I figured no thief was stupid enough to guess that sequence. Also, I was too stupid to figure out how to make my own combo.

When I tried to close my lock yesterday, I accidentally pushed too hard and activated the switch that lets you set your own combo. I was happy to have finally figured it out, but unhappy when I realized that I had no idea what my combo was. I tried to open the lock for at least fifteen minutes, but to no avail. My temporary solution was to weave the locked lock through the wheel, creating the illusion of security.

I think I’ll pick up a new lock later in the week… right after I hit up the gym.

The Vassar Comikaze's Day Off

written by the vassar comikaze

Yesterday, I cut class to go to the home opener at the new Yankee Stadium. The place looks absolutely gorgeous. It maintains the historic feel of the old park, at the same time providing the fans with limitless ill shit: an abundance of concession stands, a small Yankee museum, a lot of space to walk around in and a motherfuckin’ steakhouse. To top it off, only a relative handful of people have set foot inside. This means that it’s not yet littered with ancient peanut shells, and sitting on the toilet only gives you a 39% chance of getting crabs.

I appreciated the plush amenities and nearly parasite free facilities, but there were definitely some negative aspects to the experience. Namely, the Yankees gargled Chief Wahoo’s balls to the tune of 10-2. CC was nothing special, the offense was absent and the bullpen was so bad that George Steinbrenner pooped himself in frustration.

Aside from the fact that that the Yankees lost by eight, the worst part of the whole experience was this douche-bag that sat next to me. He was fine for most of the game, only making mildly annoying comments such as “you can’t really see the game from up these seats” and “there’s less foul territory here” (there’s more). When the guy crossed the line was in the seventh inning, exactly when the Yankee’s chances of winning turned to shit.

At the time, I was one of about 40,000 fans booing Jose Veras for giving away the game. The “reliever” gave up one walk, two hits and three runs, all without recording a single out. As I was booing him with all I had, the guy on my right turned towards me and said, “You know, you really can’t boo your own player. You can boo guys on the other team, but you can’t boo your own player.”

I thought to myself: Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Of course you can boo your own player! Veras is making millions of dollars a year to pitch at most two innings every three days. He is a relief pitcher, and a relief pitcher that does not provide relief has failed. In professional sports, fans have the right to boo you when you fail. It’s not like Veras is a veteran that’s been on the team forever and has earned my respect. He’s a decent pitcher that has potential but hasn’t proven shit. I can boo him all I want, cockfag.

I didn’t say any of this to him. I just shrugged and looked away, pushing my rage deep down where it can never, ever escape. Ever.

The irony was that the he was lecturing me about what it means to be a good fan, but thought it was okay to leave the game after the sixth inning. Fact: You haven’t experienced a Yankee game unless you stay until Ronan Tynan has finished God Bless America (pronounced Amereeca). Beat the traffic, dingus. My only revenge, if you can call it that, was letting out a long, thunderous boo as the asshole was walking away from his seat.

So I didn’t have the best day at the ballpark. At least I managed to lose a laundry bag filled with clothes on the way back to Vassar. I’d look forward to the weekend, but I’m having my wisdom teeth pulled out today.

My back hurts…

"Have Your Pets Spayed or Neutered"

written by the vassar comikaze

As of April 15, 2009, the Obama family’s puppy is more important to the American public than the economic crisis and the war in Iraq. Yesterday on msn.com, default homepage to anyone who still uses internet explorer (me), the lead story was “New First Dog has ‘Star Quality.” I don’t give two shits about “star quality,” and I couldn’t care less about a spoiled mutt that has a bigger house than me.

As you may have guessed, I am not a dog owner. To me, the notion of owning one doesn’t make any sense. It’s the same thing as adopting a retard, the only difference being that retards can be potty trained if shouted at with enough vigor. Dogs smell like ass, get their fur all over the place, shit wherever they please and sniff the asses of other dogs. Remarkably, people actually like when these repulsive things lick their face. “Look, he’s kissing me!” No, he’s not kissing you. Kissing does not involve licking your own shit and then slobbering all over someone’s face. If a dog tries to “kiss” me, I “rest” my hand on its head (push it away with all my might). Dog’s can go fuck themselves.

Of course, there are a lot of people that disagree with me. There are millions of dog owners in this country, and from what I understand, all of them think their dog is the cutest, smartest, most perfect little critter since Gizmo. Dog owners love these little bastards so much that they’ll justify anything they do. When they bite your hand: “It’s a love nip! He likes you!” When they jump on you: “He’s giving you a hug! He likes you!”

Every once in a while, dog owners will acknowledge that their dog is way out of line. When they do, these nut jobs actually try to reason with the damn things: “Baxter, stop growling. Baxter, do not tear out his jugular vein. Baxter, we do not have sex with gaping flesh wounds in this house. Baxter...Baxter.” Hey asshole, your dog doesn’t speak English. Know why? Because a dog is an animal; an animal that belongs outside with other animals.

Now you might be thinking to yourself, “I don’t get it. Why does the Vassar Comikaze, a reasonable, caring man hate dogs so much?” Let me tell you a story:

I was six years old and sleeping over at my friend Alex’s house. We were using his Star Wars action figures to recreate the battle on Endor while eating bowls of Rice Krispee Treats Cereal (green box and everything). After about twenty minutes, Alex called time-out and ran to the bathroom. I was left alone with his dog Willy, a big golden retriever.

I continued playing despite the time-out call, making the storm troopers kick each other in the face. After a minute or so I looked over at Willy and noticed something strange; a big, bright-red carrot-like object sticking up from between his legs. He was panting very loud and very fast and he was staring at me.

I had never seen anything like that before. I was scared. I figured the best thing to do was just sit still until Alex came back. It must have been at least five minutes before he did. During that time I sat there like a frightened lump, star destroyer in hand, ready to jab at old Willy if he tried anything funny. When Alex finally came back into the room, Willy ran away like nothing happened.

The experience hasn’t traumatized me, but it has taught me that you can’t trust an animal; even a big fluffy dog. One minute they’re man’s best friend, the next minute they’re fucking you over…literally.

Put Her There...Where!!?

written by the vassar comikaze

I was on the 6 train with a lady friend of mine, enjoying a nice, platonic conversation when I noticed we were approaching my stop. “Time to say goodbye” I thought, “please don’t be awkward.” The safest thing to do is hug a girl in this situation, but we were both sitting down so it was too difficult to pull off. The alternative was giving her a peck on the cheek, but I hate doing that. I’m afraid that I’m going to leave a spitty-ass grandpa kiss on the side of the girl’s face, causing her to wipe it off and tell her friends not to fuck me.

The train was slowing down and pulling into Spring street. “Oh shit, hug her. Hug her!” I stood up to give her a hug but she didn’t stand up. “Fuck!” Panicking, I leaned down to give her a hug, accidentally pulling her head into my groin. I held her there a little too long, making her pull away and start laughing. “Yeah, haha, I’m bad at goodbyes. Nick, you’re a fucking retard.”

Saying hello and goodbye to people has become a somewhat stressful activity for me. My problem is that I have no idea what people are going to do. Say you go up to a guy and he puts out his hand. Unless you’ve gone through this with him before, you don’t know what his default handshake is. He could be a clasper, a clasp pounder, a clasp snapper, a clasp snapping snapper, or maybe he just wants to shake your hand! It could be anything.

I always guess incorrectly. I end up clasping, making some wacky ass gestures with my hand and then going in for a man hug to make it look like I know what I’m doing. Sometimes people don’t hug back and I feel like a gay. I recover by pulling away quickly and crying inside.

The only thing I feel confident about is when someone puts out a hand in the high five position. All you have to do is make contact…nice and simple. Of course, every once in a while you meet a macho asshole that manages to fuck it up. They think that a high five is an excuse to smack my hand with everything they have. It isn’t. All it does is make me yelp and want to hit you.

Individual greetings/goodbyes are tough enough, but the group process can be a bitch in its own right. Take saying goodbye to a large number of people. My preference is to say one loud bye to the entire group with a big wave, but there’s always some asshole that insists on doing individual goodbyes. He’ll do the exact same hug and or handshake with each of them, saying “peace” each time.

I hate those people. First of all, you need to stop wishing peace to everyone. You’re not John Lennon and you sure as fuck ain’t Gandhi. Second of all, it looks idiotic to do the same thing over and over again, not to mention the fact that a repetitive goodbye procedure defeats the purpose of your individual goodbyes. Most importantly, your goodbye makes my goodbye seem distant and awkward when all I’m trying to do is spare everyone the burden of saying “bye!” eight hundred times.

I wish the process didn’t have to be so complicated. If it were up to me, the only hello/goodbye custom would be the gleeful jump.

The Best News All Day

guest post all the way from boston. written by L.A. Fine

I think we can all agree that the world is a pretty depressing place to live: The stock market is in free fall, unemployment is rising as fast as global sea levels, and Howie Mandel has two shows on NBC.

One of the unfortunate results of attending a big communications school is that the faculty thinks it’s important for me to be informed about current events. I am thus strongly encouraged to read the New York Times every day. I wouldn’t mind the task if things weren’t so fucked up, but alas, they are, and the last time I checked the Times doesn’t offer a free Zoloft prescription with the Sunday edition.

To alleviate the depression that comes with constantly reading about the evil in the world, I began looking for the most hilarious bits of bad news for my own schadenfreudal delight. The results have yielded a fascinating bit of information: It is 2009 and pirates are still terrorizing the high seas.

Yes, pirates. Not the music and movie pirates that piss off the recording industry, but real mother fuckin’ pirates. These guys sail up alongside a lumbering ship carrying valuable goods, climb on board and take the shit captive. They then force the government of the ship’s home country to pay a ransom for the release of the boat and crew.

And the best part is, the governments do it! They put like 3 million dollars in a duffle bag and drop it from a plane with a little parachute attached. The pirates count the money, get back on their little dinghy, and get the fuck out of there.

The same shit that Vikings named Redbeard were doing in the 1500’s is happening right now in the Gulf of Aden, off the coast of Somalia. The only difference is that now the big bearded men with hooks and sabers are scrawny west-Africans with bazookas and AK-47s. And it’s not as if a few of these guys got together and said, “Hey, lets fuck with this ship and call ourselves pirates!” The Gulf of Aden is currently known as a “pirate infested body of water.” We have an infestation of pirates in the 21st century!

With over 100 cases of piracy on the high seas reported already this year, the institution seems to be going strong. Who knows, maybe other old favorites like witch burnings, gladiatorial fights to the death, and unprotected sex will make a comeback as well. We all know times are rough, but hang in there all you spoiled college kids! You may have given up on your dreams of being a professional athlete, the front man of a boy band, an astronaut (or both), but I hope it comforts you to know that you can still dream of being a pirate.

Here’s to optimism folks, and here’s to the best news all day!

It's Your Birthday, That's Why We Put on Paper Hats

written by the vassar comikaze

Did you know that more people are born in April than any other month? Okay, I made that up. The actual statistic is that more people are conceived in April than in any other month. Wait, I lied about that too. Most people have their birthdays in June…or was it July? I guess that was a pretty bad way of articulating it, but what I really want to talk about are birthdays. We all have birthdays. Birthdays and Christ.

Like any kid, I used to love having birthday parties. Not just because of the cool stuff people would give me, but also because of the gifts and presents I’d get. My most memorable birthday party was when I turned six, and it was held in the basement of my apartment building. I got to bust open a piñata, a friend of mine puked and two of the Power Rangers stopped by. They came in their rubber suits and everything, dancing around to the theme song (just like the real Power Rangers!) Everyone mobbed them on sight, pleading with them to summon the megazord. I remember being disappointed when they left the party soon after their grand entrance, but the half hour they were there was enough to make me skeet my wee little overalls.

Towards the end of the party, my sister and I went upstairs to get something from her room. I tried turning the knob to get in, but the door was locked. Naturally, my sister was pissed that she was locked out of her own room. She started knocking on the door, loudly demanding entry. No answer. We turned the knob together with all we had, pushing on the door with our combined effort until it flew open. Standing in the middle of the room were the two rangers, helmets off and rubber costumes at their ankles. The red ranger’s balls dangled out of his boxers. We all stared at each other for a moment or so, until the white ranger remarked, “Uh, we’re naked.” My sister and I slammed the door, looked at each other and laughed hysterically.

My birthdays are nowhere near as exciting or memorable anymore: I literally have no clue what I did to celebrate over the last five years. The only recent birthday I can remember was this past December, and all I did was get high and eat steak tacos. Oh yeah, I also checked my Facebook every half hour to see how many people wished me a happy birthday. What a day.

The weird part is that I don’t care that my recent birthdays haven’t been spectacular. I’m perfectly content just chilling with a few of my friends and going a day without being bothered. Does that mean I’m getting old?

Something Different Today

written by the vassar comikaze

I was looking through some of my senior year work the other day(procrastinating) and found this dialogue I wrote towards the end of the year. I had two assignments that week, so to save time I tried to write something that I could hand in for both classes. The two assignments were to come up with a moon hoax, and write something with two distinct voices. This is what I came up with:

Emergency Broadcast System: We interrupt this presentation of Star Trek XII: Spock’s Colonoscopy to bring you this live, emergency programming.

James Kelly: Thank you all for joining us involuntarily. I’m James Kelly of World News. Co-hosting with me today for this momentous occasion is Kelly James of the daytime Emmy winning talk show, "Hollywood does Kelly"… wait, scratch that. "Kelly does Hollywood." Sorry about that Kelly.

Kelly James: [oblivious] Great to see you again James!

James Kelly: Joining us is college professor and renowned astronomer Herschel Nebulawitz who -

Herschel Nebulawitz: Shana Tova to you both. It’s a pleasure to be here to share this remarka-

James Kelly: [raises voice] As I was saying, we’re here with professor Nebulawitz who -

Herschel Nebulawitz: Sorry, it’s just that I’ve never been on TV before and everyone in my congregation is watching over at the synago-

James Kelly: [visibly agitated] Ahem! [regains composure] The professor is here to share his recent findings regarding the moon. Thanks for agreeing to speak on such short notice professor.

Herschel Nebulawitz: You’d think I’d turn down national television…catering? Necha, please.

Kelly James: There he goes with that Jewish humor again. Isn’t he such a riot?

James Kelly: [looks at both of them with subdued disdain] Professor, didn’t you come here today because you had something important to say??

Herschel Nebulawitz: What? [pulls up yarmulke to scratch head beneath] Right! That’s right now I remember. James, Kelly, viewing public: I have discovered conclusively that there is life on the moon!

James Kelly: Now professor, I’m sure you’ll understand if our viewers would be skeptical about this claim. As you know, there have been numerous explorations of the moon’s surface, with none of them revealing life of any kind.

Herschel Nebulawitz: Well of course they didn’t find anything; they didn’t look in the right place! With funding from Jewish space-exploration organizations such as Hebrews for Heliocentrism, I was able to build the first moon rover capable of digging beneath the moon’s surface. When I saw the pictures the Macabee 1 was sending back, oy! Simply to die.

Kelly James: This is more exciting than the time I interviewed Tony Shalhoub!

James Kelly: Let’s try to stay serious here Kelly.

Kelly James: I kid, I kid. We all know that there’s nothing more exciting than the star of USA’s hit sitcom Monk on Thursdays at 8. That’s Monk starring Tony Shalhoub.

James Kelly: [refuses to acknowledge her] So, professor, what did these images display?

Herschel Nebulawitz: First it sent back pictures of gravel, then some brown matter-like matter that strongly resembled dirt. Once the Macabee 1 got beneath all that, it started sending pictures of buildingy structures that appeared to be buildings of some sort. And I swear to Hashem himself, I began getting pictures of living creatures. They stood up straight on two legs, had arms and bodies just like ours. I tell you, these things were just as human as you or me.

Kelly James: Professor, do you mean to tell me that you actually got pictures of gravel?! I think I speak for everyone when I say I’d like you to elaborate.

Herschel Nebulawitz: Certainly Kelly. The gravel was brown with specks of –

James Kelly: With all due respect to my colleague, I think the more pertinent question is about these so called moon-men. Do you have the photos that the Macabee 1 sent back?

Herschel Nebulawitz: Of course. Feast your eyes. [proudly hands pictures over]

Kelly James: Oh my, they do look exactly like us! But what are those circular objects on top of their heads…and those two strange curly things hanging out from under them?

Herschel Nebulawitz: Glad you asked. It hasn’t been confirmed, but I believe that these are extra organs that serve remarkable purposes. The curly objects appear to be antennas that give these creatures a heightened ability to protect their possessions. You’ll see in picture three that the creature is fully aware that the other creature behind him is trying to snatch whatever object it is he’s holding. As for the circular object on the head, I believe it is a mechanism which causes the creatures to bow uncontrollably while muttering some kind of incantation, thus –

James Kelly: [stands up, exasperated] This is completely absurd. Mr. Nebulawitz, you are a total fraud. These aren’t pictures from the moon, they’re from your son’s bar mitzvah.

Herschel Nebulawitz: Sweet Streisand! I don’t have to listen to these wild allegations.

Kelly James: Yeah James, sweet Struh… screaming Struhhs… Struhsund?

Herschel Nebulawitz: Streisand.

Kelly James: That’s it. I always have trouble with your silly names.

James Kelly: I can’t stand either of you anymore. These pictures are NOT from the moon. The circular objects, the curly antennas… yarmulkes and peyes. The reason why these people look so much like humans is because they are humans: they’re orthodox Jews from Long Island. And if you look in the background of this picture, you can clearly see that it says Smithtown Synagogue congratulates Jacob on becoming a man. Mr. Nebulawitz, I think you owe us, and all of our viewers an apology.

Herschel Nebulawitz: [in a stern tone] I’ve met your kind before, James. You just can’t believe that a Jewish man would have the capacity to find life on the moon when all you gentiles couldn’t do it after centuries of searching. You sir, are an anti-Semite.

James Kelly: You’re... you’re not serious.

Herschel Nebulawitz: Oh I’m serious James. Serious as Steven Speilberg when… serious as Sarah Silverman’s…serious as Sammy Davis jr… forget the fakachta alliteration. Yes, I’m serious!

Kelly James: James, it’s just a little suspect that you’d question the professor when he’s put the evidence right in front of you. Just embrace your anti-Semitism and we can move on. It’s okay James [puts hand on his knee] you can talk to Kelly.

James Kelly: Get your hand off of me! Are you both insane?! We’ve interrupted another show so we could appear live, and this fraud comes on claiming that he’s found alien life at a Long Island bar mitzvah! How did he even get on the air anyway? Don’t we have a screening process or something? With the exception of the O’Reiley Factor, this is the most poorly conceived news show I’ve ever been a part of!

Herschel Nebulawitz: You see Kelly, the man can’t stop insulting people. Now he’s going off on the Irish! What did the Irish ever do to you James?

James Kelly: First of all, I am Irish. Secondly –

Kelly James: He’s a self hating anti-Semite! I’ve covered his kind before on my award winning special, self hating anti-Semites. [turns to camera] Which by the way is available on DVD and Bluray, only at Bestbuy.

James Kelly: [red with frustration] I… you can’t.. how is that even [clutches chest]… arghhh…. ughhhhh [collapses onto the floor].

Kelly James: [springs to her feet] He’s having a heart attack! Medic! Nurse! Jesus!

Herschel Nebulawitz: It’s okay Kelly, I can handle this. I didn’t spend seven years at the moyle institute for nothing. Stand back [pulls scalpel out of his back pocket and begins cutting into James’ chest]

James Kelly: [inaudibly] Get away from me, you…idio-

Kelly James: What did he say, professor?

Herschel Nebulawitz: It was beautiful Kelly, he apologized for his self hating anti-semitism. Don’t worry, James bubalah. Herschel’s here to help! [continues cutting as blood pours out of Jame's chest and he stops moving entirely]

Kelly James: Well, that about does it for this emergency programming. I’m Kelly James, and thanks for watching.

The Faptastic Adventures of The Vassar Comikaze

written by the vassar comikaze

Whether you’d like to acknowledge it or not, guys masturbate. As it’s lonely, dirty work to spank one’s monkey, the practice is easily and frequently made fun of. I prefer to celebrate it rather than bash it. Jacking off is one of the few things which all men, regardless of race and sexual orientation, have in common. I first took part in the sacred tradition at the age of thirteen and after countless hours of practice, I’ve become the proficient wanker you know and love. As you’ll see below, it was not all fun and games on the way to the top.

It was 2002 and I wasn’t even a rookie in the NBA (National Beatoff Association). I knew what jacking off was, but I had no clue as to how go about doing it. One day in gym class, I was lucky enough to overhear a conversation older kids were having about the subject. It was difficult to make out everything they were saying, but their body language was vivid. One of the kids made a fist with his right hand, and then bent his elbow so that his knuckles were facing left. Having unsuccessfully checked to make sure no one was watching, he put his sideways fist over his crotch and began moving it violently up and down, causing he and his friends to burst into laughter. I’d seen what I needed to see, and that night I made my first attempt.

That kid in school made it look easy, but jacking off was hard! I had no trouble getting a boner initially, but after imitating my gym class hero unsuccessfully for almost an hour, my dick (and my arm) was tired. I didn’t know if or when I would finish and my dick was semi-soft, but I was determined damn it. I stayed in my computer chair, telling myself I would not get up until I achieved victory. I continued stroking my jelloey jew-cock. After several tiring minutes I felt a strong, oddly familiar build up of pressure. “This must be it,” I thought. I started pumping like Daniel Plainview. “Almost there…here it comes…” and then it came. A stream of pee shot up from my now entirely soft dick, landing directly on my legs and dripping down to the carpeted floor. I was soaked in my own urine, my room smelled like a homeless shelter and worse; I had failed.

I eventually learned that it’s way easier to wank when you have something sexy in front of you (and a boner). As my internet connection was very slow at the time, Skinemax became my main source of sexy entertainment. Fine late-night programming such as Passion Cove, Hotline, Nightcap and Hotel Erotica inspired me in those wee hours of the morning. While I didn’t care much for the plots and had difficulty relating to the characters, the abundance of boobies bouncing around pleased me to no end. I remember thinking to myself that being a porno actor would fucking rule.

When I mentioned my affinity for Cinemax’s after hours lineup to my friends at school, I was met with ridicule. They told me that it was all fake and that you can only see real stuff on the internet. I tried to play it off like I knew that already, but deep down I was mortified. I wasn’t having sex, the actors weren’t having sex…was anybody fucking?

Since I didn’t want to believe them and thoroughly enjoyed Skinemax, I continued watching. A few nights later, an episode of Passion Cove came on that would change the way I wanked forever. Jack and Sienna were making love on the kitchen table, going from missionary to doggy style until finally she was on top. It was then that I noticed something strange. There was this mysterious purple thing coming out from under Sienna’s ass that I couldn’t identify. Birthmark? No. Doodie? No. The tip of a penis? Yes. Jack’s penis was supposed to be inside her: What was it doing out there? Embarrassed and disappointed, I turned off the TV and went to sleep. My Skinemax days were over.

My separation from soft-core porn was painful, but it doesn’t compare to how I felt when I had to part with another treasured masturbation aid; the jizz rag. I originally made the switch from tissues to a washcloth because I had difficulty using them without getting spunked on. The washcloth provided the security I needed to keep myself dry. Whenever I was done with the washcloth, I’d throw it behind my desk to use another day. After about four months of repeated use, the washcloth was covered in dried, discolored semen spots. It felt like matzah. Now, it occurred to me that I should probably wash the damn thing, but I was afraid that if I did the semen would leak out and get into my other clothes, prompting a long embarrassing explanation to my parents. I didn’t want that to happen, so I just kept throwing it behind the desk.

One day I decided that I was in the mood to wank, so I took out my trusty jizz rag. It was business as usual until I noticed a small hole in the washcloth. I stopped what I was doing and unfolded the washcloth entirely. Among several other holes were these little brown ovals about the size of an ant. The holes were teeth marks; teeth marks from a mouse that ate my dried up jizz and then shat it back onto the washcloth. I didn’t know whether to vomit or cry. I was horrified. I threw it into the garbage, gagged a little bit and swore off jizz rags forever.

Logically, anyone who has had so many bad experiences masturbating would have stopped long ago. Yeah, well fuck logic.

Have a nice weekend!

I'm Rich, Biatch!

written by the vassar comikaze

Apparently the Comikaze’s been getting more views than I thought: I got an email from Gawker over the weekend asking if I’d be interested in doing a column for them. I said yes.

I’ll still be posting here, but for the most part I’ll just link to my content on their site.

Click here for today’s post.

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Got ya? Come back Friday for “The Faptastic Adventures of The Vassar Comikaze”