In an attempt to bolster a sagging Barack Obama ratings, Democratic Party Leaders are trying to make a weakness their strenght. By cashing in on their ‘fat party image’, Democrats hope to woo…
you
Um. Yeah. Great job, Democrats. Great fucking job.
My lover is home.
Being Dr. Murk is all about careful observation. I am a married man, and as such, I am in slavery. Many of my friends and relatives are married. Nothing hurts me more than a young friend who doesn’t understand the concept of marriage.
Marriage is a series of choices. The first choice is to get married. After making that mistake, the next choice is deciding who wants to be right, and who wants to be happy. The obvious choice for both of these is the woman. This is because if she is not right and not happy, the man will get NOTHING! No peace, no food, no sex, no remote, no computer, no firends, no money, no time off, etc. So. We give up the little things like truth and happiness in the hopes of reducing torture.
Many of my friends are horrified when I explain this to them. The look at me as some jaded old fool who has forgotten how to love. Yes. That’s what marriage is about. Forgetting how to love. Young couples swear they are the only one who will keep love alive and be happy forever!!! He he he. Two years later…
Being said, marriage is better than the alternative, old person single life. From what I can see, it’s a direct route to suicide. It’s better to be nagged than ignored, as you gradually grow older and uglier. Sad.
You see, the key to marriage is waiting around long enough that neither party cares about shit anymore. Then, you get to laugh at the younger people. You become like a grissled old wrestling tag team, ready to fight and cheat and knock out the ref to win.
Get a helmet for marriage.
Here’s more proof from the nature doesn’t make sense file. Consider, for a moment, the worst pain you’ve ever felt. That’s it. Get good and into it. Rate it on a scale of one to ten, ten being the highest. Don’t be an ass and rate it an 11 or higher. That’s stupid.
Okay. Now, picture stubbing all five toes on solid wood stairs, aided by gravity and your weight. Now, picture stubbing them on brick as you kick out your foot running by the fireplace. Picture your brother kicking them backwards under the table (by accident). Now, stub them on a rough, unvarnished, pine chest.
I seriously think toe stub might rank up there with sudden back pain and kick in the sack pain. I’m not talking a little stub here. I’m talking the one that brings you to the ground in the auto-response fetal position.
It’s not, however, equal to battlefield surgery pain.
The other day I was on ride-a-long with the cops, and the arresting officer asked me if a I was a reader. I told him yes, indeed I was. He asked my what I read. I told him, fiction mostly. Then he asked me a disturbing question. Not disturbing from his perspective, but from mine. “What’s your favorite book?”
I had no answer, hence the disturbance.
I love lots of books. I have some preferred authors, yes yes, but one… favorite… book? Kibbital? Meep. Moooooo. Uh…. what’s that again? My brain short circuted. Suddenly, I could think of no books at all! ACK!
So, I’ve been wracking my brain ever since and trying to figure out which is my favorite.
It’s fun to lie, but in this case, I won’t. I can’t possibly think of a favorite book. It’s not like a movie, or game, or sport, or band or TV show. Books don’t lend themselves to favoritism. Some clearly suck. Some are quite awesome. It’s not even a matter of having too many favorites to choose.
The problem is that books are such a long experience that you rank them more like friends. Different friends are best in different situations and for different reasons. I could reccomend authors, or certain books for certain people, but to declare one the favorite is ludicrous.
So I realized that the cop was in fact a stupid, worthless shit and he deserved to be peed on. The judge disagreed.
From Jail,
Murk
My latest seminar will be called “Whatsamatta You: Teaching the Other People How to Speak English.” This seminar will focus on safe and effective ways to force immigrants to speak English, act American, and join the Armed Forces to earn citizenship.
We’ll be covering the use of sticks, knives, guns, hand grenades, waterboarding, improvised weaponry and sarcasm. We will also show people how to form a ‘protest line’ using nothing but rubber hoses and spit. This country is a melting pot, and what makes it great is that once we melt you, you are a better person. You can’t be a better person if you don’t speaka de Engleesh, Tanto! IRISH OUT!!!
Once again, from our letters department, we have sorrow:
Dear Dr. Murk,
I’m having trouble communicating with my partner. She give me a lot of grief for cleaning and stuff. I just want her to understand that I’m trying my best, but I keep putting my foot in my mouth. How can I talk to her without getting her more upset?
Regards,
Wife Beater
Beater,
There’s a bunch of things you could say, but shouldn’t. Don’t bother communicating with the psycho. We psychologists have a rule. We don’t negotiate with crazy people. Any woman with a ring on her finger is crazy. If women knew what the point of marriage really was, they wouldn’t do it. This points to significant delusional tendencies.
What should you do? Offer to fix her a bath. Run the water. Mix her a drink or brew a cup of tea. Slip a qualude in the drink. Nighty night. Now, you have the remote and the peace and quiet to use it. Don’t get any bright ideas about sex either. She’ll remember that, you flacid disappointment, you. No suspicion, no police investigation. Get a nice hooker if you have to.
Lastly, resist the urge to write something on her face with a sharpie.
Hope this helps.
Murk
I was talking to Captain Careless, aka SATAN, the other day. Whilst I often have glowing praise for the Lord of the Underworld and his magical land of suffering called EARTH, lately, he’s been kind of a pussy. Not so much the loathesome, fish smelling gash of feminine genitalia, but just a freaking wimpy fag of a SATAN, crying about life.
Oh Murky, he said, my little vagina hurts because everyone ignores me except for those idiot SATANISTS, who I can’t stand. So, I pushed him down on the couch to set him straight.
You see, a real Lord of Evil wouldn’t stand for that nonsense. A true master of the malign would raise a true army and kill kill kill KILL!!!!
He looked at me with his sad violet eyes. Nobody wants to fight now that religion is useless.
