If there is one thing that should be clear by now, the crew here at DNFTB are all extremely, deeply religious. In our own very special and personal ways. We have a faith that is rooted firmly in the sarcasm organs of our souls. So deeply personal are our convictions that they never show up in this episode. Millions of people believing in the Old Voyeur In The Sky doesn’t stop us from exploring the good, old fashioned gambling, incest, rape, (possibly) the first instance of victim blaming and unfortunate comparisons.
Prepare your souls, the righteous DNFTB fires have come to cleanse you minions!
You hoped we were dead! Gone with the wind! Away on a magic carpet ride to oblivion! But you were wrong!
We were just plotting and biding our time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to release this auditory orgasm in your unworthy ears!
Listen to the first episode of the DNFTB podcast as Kevin the Penguin Master, resident advice columnist Auntie Liv and all-around perv Aggrey reminisce about the struggle of dial-up porn consumption and reveal exactly where to find our various porn stashes. And to top it off, we also solve the age old mystery of the Share button on streaming sites.
Abandon decency all ye who enter here!
Do not look at me as a prophet of doom for the words I’m about to say. Rather, I reveal the deep truths that we refuse to admit even to ourselves.
SCIENCE HAS FAILED US! How you might ask? Simple. We don’t have robot sex dolls.
I would be more than justified in using this space to bemoan the pathetic state of our sciences and our scholars and our technology, but I’m just not that kind of guy. I’m the kind of guy who thinks beyond his present circumstances and tries to solve the problems that he’s presented with. And there’s only one obvious solution to this dire situation: Necrophilia.
It really is the perfect blend of human contact without the inconvenience of human interaction. Our techniques of human preservation mean that bodies can be maintained in pristine condition after death for a long time. And all it’ll take to get corpses flexible again after rigor mortis is a few strategically placed metal joints. And if you think that is impossible, think of the artificial joints surgeries all over the world that replace knees, elbows and hips. It’s only a small step to doing the same to the dead. It’ll actually be cheaper since you don’t have to worry about anaesthesia and quality of (after)life.
And for all those with petty moral concerns, GET OVER YOURSELVES! You want to deny hundreds of people the joys of having a human sex partner with no demands of their own! What kind of monsters are you!? Yes the partners might be dead, but that’s better than the nothing that those people currently have. It’s not like these corpses will be diverted from some critical function. In fact, we’d actually be using them to bring even more happiness to the world. And I’m sure that if it’s one thing our loved ones would like to know they brought to this world even after their passing, it’s happiness.
Don’t bury or cremate your loved ones. Instead, donate their body to that sexless friend or frustrated who you know could use some good lovin’. In the immortal words of Michael Jackson, you’ll be doing your part to heal the world, to make it a better place for you and for me and the entire human race.
A horrible accident saw me lose the most important limb I have, my penis. I will not go into any details but suffice to say, one should never be cheap and use knock-off lube that can pass convincingly as axle grease with one’s fleshlight, especially if it’s for a vigorous session.
But thanks to the miracle of science, all was not lost. Just to be clear, all the penis was lost, everything from the pelvis onwards. All of that gone! I was left looking like a mannequin with a pair of saggy balls for comedic effect.
Medical science has come a long way from the days of leeches and spells (MODERN medical science). I did not have to go through life with the humiliation of having to be the only chap to argue for leaving the toilet seat down. Because really!? Who can’t be bothered to take the single second to actually look to check the position of the toilet seat before getting down to business.
A radical new procedure, the penis transplant, meant that I was able to get a new lease on life. I could consider myself a man in all the relevant ways. I would only have to comprise in a few minor ways; length, girth and skin tone. Small sacrifices to still be able to have a penis.
Surprisingly, the concept of having a penis that was from a corpse was surprisingly easy to get used to. It’s amazing what the horror of having to live with no dick will do to your sense of perspective. Even the skin tone thing was pretty easy to get used to. Flashing it became an amusing party trick as no one could actually believe they saw a lightest-skinned cock on this darkest of dudes. It was hilarious. And it was more than once where I was propositioned by women looking to experience the cock to believe the story *wink wink, nudge nudge* i.e. white man meat from a black mandingo.
But these little things did not take the edge off the hardships of having a second hand sausage.
Masturbation was never the same. It never felt like I was pleasuring myself, more like a phantom handjob, and an amateurish one at that. The technique I had perfected since my teens was off thanks to the new thickness and length of the shaft and its different nerve endings. I always had to be conscious of the strokes or I would end up almost ripping my head of as I overshot. The natural grip I had was suddenly not right and it felt like I was jerking a disembodied penis that mysteriously made me orgasm.
Sex with the girlfriend was always awkward. After the initial new dick novelty wore off, she became uncomfortable with having the Frankenstein weiner all up in her. Blowjobs are at an end when you have to convince her that no really, it’s totally fine to have what was once a dead man’s schlong in your mouth, it’s not at all necrophilic. Sex became a dutiful chore that even a Puritan would deem it frigid. Of course the lack of release has made me more of an ornery bastard, which weird enough, is suddenly gaining me more female attention. Which just amps my need for release, making me more annoyed. It’s a vicious cycle.
Even months after the operation, a simple morning wee can end in disaster, with pee all over the floor, due to misjudgement of positioning and trajectory of the morning wood due to the foreign stiffy that is now attached to my body.
Deep down, I don’t think I will ever get accustomed to having a new tool to work with. But still, better used dick than no dick at all. A philosophy most women, gay dudes and, now one straight guy, can live by.
As a red-blooded, heterosexual, misogynist male, I have been busy scoping out chicks’ asses, hips, waists and breasts. It’s not because I want to mind you. It’s because society expects me to. I’m just a victim of my conditioning. I can’t help it.
With the disclaimer out of the way, I have been noticing a lot of parasite-bearing ladies happily flaunting their distended bellies everywhere. It’s seems that spawning time is almost upon us and a new crop of leeches will be loosed on humanity i.e. lots of heavily pregnant women be waddling around.
Now, while I lament their misplaced joy at bringing new life in the world, I have been noticing that my troublesome 2nd brain twitches when the women are in sight going, “You know you wouldn’t mind gutting that fish.” And I go “Dammit penis! I don’t need a new perversion to add to my CV!”
But it has a point. I’m more than a bit curious at stabbing the cat of a heavily pregnant, about-to-break-their-water kind of woman. First of all, the mechanics alone would be worth it. Missionary suddenly becomes a maneuver on par with handling nuclear material. If I jackhammer with abandon like a horny rabbit, is there a real chance of inducing a premature birth?
And if the baby can hear all the soothing sounds of classical music while in the womb, will it also be privy to the sounds of it’s mother bumping uglies? Science, I NEED TO KNOW!
Can I punch a baby if I fist the mother hard enough? Will I feel the soft head cave-in as I tickle the lady’s g-spot? How far would my arm have to travel to accomplish that? And would it heighten her pleasure? (See, ladies! With me, it’s all about you! 😉 )
How about 69’ing? Can the body even contort and stretch over that huge hump to get to the gash? Or is that simply a pipe dream at that stage of gestation?
I don’t know if it’s just sexual curiosity that’s the cause of my new found re-evaluation of the baby ejectors, or my maturity as a person (hehehe) that has allowed me to take notice of their attractiveness. But this is a venture that has to be explored at some point in time. Something else to add to the bucket list, along with setting fire to dog’s balls and wearing a suit of bees.
Writing these days has proven to be a chore. The stresses and strains of having to pretend you’re a mature grownup have proven to be very taxing even for my Oscar-worthy acting skills. Things crop up, deadlines, pressures to perform and timelines to be met and before you know it, you’re stumbling into bed at 10pm, waiting to do it all over again the next day.
I don’t have time to search my favourite internet haunts for pictures and stories that will scour away the remainder of my soul. No time to listen to podcasts that push the boundaries of the shreds of decency that stubbornly cling onto my person. I don’t even have time for looking up what scenes from my favourite pornstars are up to.
I also can’t spare the energy to hate on the abominations that infests our lands that are children. They’ve been relegated to ants and herpes; an evil that I just have to learn to live with (not that I have herpes, at least that wasn’t the case last time I checked. So ladies, the ride is still open for business, OH YEAH!) No longer do I dream of creative ways of turning them into finger food. I’m too busy dreaming of how much sleep I’d love to get. Fantasies of kids as strength test dummies for prosthetic limbs have to be set aside for that fictional off day that is yet to arrive. I can no longer smile as I drift off to sleep because I don’t craft new ways of turning into a profitable competition the immense pleasure of dropping those unhuman monstrosities into active volcanoes.
If nothing else, this is what I will miss most as the responsible facade I put up becomes a reality, that more infants will be birthed and not immediately turned into finger food. Because I’ll have to live with the knowledge that if the world had given me more time, a baby-free utopia would have been ours to enjoy.