Search Engine Cues

I was originally just going to type a bunch of words (like "vaginal warts" and "Mississippi Handbag") in a string so that, no matter what some twat waffle troglodyte typed in on Google or Yahoo!, they might stumble across my uncle-fucking page.  However, I thought better of it, realizing that, if the first thing the internet astronaut finds is a list of profanities, vulgarities, blasphemies, and obscurities, they might never read on, cuntily (i.e., in the fashion or manner of a cunt) dismissing my page as balderdash, poppycock, bollocks, bullshit, or ballyhoo, and missing over some truly insightful (or unsightly) shit; see, this shit on my blog is for the truly intelligent fetishist, and while the smegma that I've splattered on here doesn't quite have the same level of all-media art as "The Best Page in the Universe" by Maddox or the same amount of amusing and more-than-moderately misogynistic anecdotes as Tucker Max's site (www.tuckermax.com), (although, trust me, I've got my tales, too) I do think that you, dear reader, would do well to read on, and so I've put the words that I would have simply listed here into a monologue so that you would perhaps read on and be entertained.

I put the words "twat waffle" in that paragraph above for that very reason.  Please do not believe that I'm some sort of daft cunt that would ever say that, at least in earnestness.  I was merely hoping that some poor bastard - or a monosyllabic twat, or douche, or shit-eater, or priest rapist - would get the yearning to look up "twat waffle" at two in the morning and come across this site, reading some blogs and recommending it to all of his assfuck nigger faggot cuntworm Jew Spic friends. (Of course, I could put in words like "friendship" or "petunia" or "nostalgia", for surely some of that is covered here, and in seriousness... but that's not necessarily the clientele that would also want to read about a dickless Jack the Ripper or gay marriage or full frontal nudity in a public place, and so I went for the dregs of society - the perverts, the cretins, the sorry sons-of-bitches and saps that would read this sort of bullshit, hoping that I could pick up one or two intellects for every hundred degenerates.  After all, there are many more lowlifes on the planet.)

Please do not make the mistake that I'm dumb or ignorant.  I'm just a vulgar motherfucker, and I'm trying to indulge myself - a mind exhibitionist - by exposing myself (anonymously, of course) to those fucking voyeurs out there who would find some of my stuff interesting.  There is insight here, I promise; moreover, and more importantly, there is entertainment here, too.  Some have said that vulgarity is entertaining for small, uncreative minds.  I say, the Victorian Era is over; the second Medieval Age has begun, and, this time, we've got electricity.  We've got the World Wide Web.  And we've got very, very poor impulse control.

So, do you want to find "homes for sale", "baby names", or help on your taxes?  Do you want free money from the government, or do you want to discuss the homeless, the economy, the illegal aliens gun control NORML marijuana legalization abortion presidential elections?  Well, hopefully, if you do, you typed one of these terms into a search engine and stumbled across my page.

If you want - if you really want - football statistics or Superbowl tickets, free sports clothing, Final Four seats or to win the lottery, by all means, go right fucking after that, or all of them... but enjoy my page.  Tell what few or as many friends as you have about Gentleman Dick's blog.

If you want to jerk off to thoughts of a ménage à trois of Kristen Bell, Lady Gaga, or the strumpet in the Brangelina Dynamic Duo, Angelina Jolie (if you can stand the callogen, that is), you are more than within your rights to do so, fuckhead: But tell your fucking bottom-feeder friends about this page.

If you want to see Rosie O'Donnell fat, puckering asshole swallow a cucumber, a zucchini, or a squash, please: Get help; I almost wouldn't fuck her, and that is saying quite a bit.  But tell your friends about this blog.

Tell your wife.  Tell your kids.  Tell the nun that used to suck dick and the priest whose dick you used to suck.  Tell them all, shit-for-brains.  Tell them all.

A Moment of the Real, December 4, 2011

"The only constant is change."

Heh.  Ain't that the truth.

When I was a kid, sixteen, seventeen years old, I thought it would be great, GREAT, if I could somehow buy a mansion with hundreds of rooms, one for each friend of mine, or person that had made an impact, or even just those I enjoyed partying with; great conversations and memories and times.  I would gladly have somehow supported them so that they could stay with me and I wouldn't have to look back on the memories of my life, but actually have them, right there, to be relived.

I know now, as I did then, that this wasn't plausible, possible, or kind.  See, these people each have their own lives and goals, comforts, and momentums, and so we may get to pass like two ships in an endless ocean, or even travel aside one another for a time.  Eventually, though, we each peel off in our own pursuits and directions, and the mates we had once aren't always eternal.

I am now old enough to know that those friends that would sail with me for a time won't necessarily sail with me forever.  I had a friend, Erm, who once referred to our pack as "the fellas".  Not "The Fellas", like some pre-packaged boy band from the Rat Pack era, but "the fellas", the way he said it full of endearment and personal meaning.  There were several of us, ten or so, that grew up and fought and laughed and ran together.  You ever see those scenes in the movies where a group of guys is cajoling together, each one with his own unique relationship with each of the others?  That was us, "the fellas".

One by one, over the years, as girlfriends became wives or bones of contention, or as careers or jobs or goals or financial hardships or just plain life in general pulled us in one direction or another, we strayed from this pack, we fellas did, sometimes abandoning it altogether.  Some came back; some did not.  That is that.

In the past few months, I've been running into or hanging out with or talking to old friends from that pack, or second or third versions of that pack, Erm included.  It's been good, I suppose.  Cathartic, in a way, but awakening, too.  You never can step in the same river twice.

Some are married - so am I - and others are out there, exploring alone.  Some are married and exploring alone... perhaps this is a more adequate depiction of myself.

...

Have you ever seen a movie where the protagonist rides off into the sunset or towards a new adventure until his features become indistinct?  It's a common ending; the audience rests assured that, wherever this hero or that couple goes, they are going on with their lives.  All is well, it is assumed, and then the audience gets up and leaves, continuing with their own life.

Have you ever heard a song that doesn't just end with a dramatic finale, a definite endnote with resonance becoming nothing, but instead just continues to rock on or flow forth, continuing but growing fainter, not ending but just going somewhere else?

Life does continue, even after that song ends, and the fellas?  They're still out there.  Like different frequencies on the same path, we'll no doubt cross one another again.  But will it ever be like it was, with all of us drinking and laughing, cooking fish and being young?

I still feel young.  I still look young, to a point.  My mind, though... I'm an old man sometimes, and when I drink now, I drink alone.  Instead of making jokes, I write.

I've got new groups of friends, new fellas, not replacements, but good ones.

But will it ever be like it was?

No.

A Poem of Natural Love (Note: Love as a physical act... not some emotion related to an endorphin rush...)

I wanted to write a poem about the birds and flowers,

     But birds and bees are better, as I’d like to fuck for hours.

I see no point in hiding it, veiled behind the decent,

     For this hard-on in my pants is anything but recent.

It may not curry favor, love, and it may blow my chance,

     But why try deceit? I’ll be direct: Please let me in your pants.

I suppose I understand the trait that woman do possess

     To want to hear such longing words of love and heart’s duress,

To hear soft licks of poetry, to speak of love forlorn…

     Sorry, but that sappy bullocks makes it hard to perform.

So I do find bliss and happiness in walking through green meadows;

     For all the world, in honesty, I’d much rather get head, though.

Not that I can’t be passionate, nor do I find it trite,

     But a sonnet’s singing’s not something I care to do at night.

It seemed appropriate that this blog have an image to go with it, and so, I was inspired.