I am way too nice now to give you a lecture on the passive-aggressive interplay between the sexes

I am on this new kick where I am exposing myself to the world for the nice guy that I really am. I am talking to you about my sensitive side, because I don't want you to think that if we were in a relationship and you brought home a kitten I would really train it by lighting your bottle of hairspray on fire and spraying it at the cat.

I mean I would light the can on fire and and spray it every once and a while just to let the cat think it is possible that not just water comes out of spray bottles and it better behave itself. I think it is important to exert dominance over animals otherwise one day they may get it in their heads to to eat you if you forget the kibbles and bits.

Speaking of me being nice here are some pictures of Britney Spears looking less fat than before. I guess if you are like Britney then you used to be cute but then you got pregnant and decided eating was way more fun that getting looked at by boys. I don't blame you for your over eating as men are assholes, and the mean truth of it all is that if Britney lost her high paying job and fame she'd just be another single mom at the community pool hoping to play house with some reformed gangster who just got out of jail for selling dope.

I don't know why you go after reformed gangsters, because gangsters don't take care of their own kids, so what makes you think he's going to take care of your smelly brats? The sad truth is he is just using you for sex and the sadder truth is you know it, but just can't help yourself. Your last boyfriend was so bad in the sack and had such a tiny disappointment for a penis that you will do anything short of shoplifting cucumbers to feel something in that stretched out womb of yours.

I applaud your life affirming decision. Most people in your situation have given up on life and have lost all their enthusiasm, but not you. It doesn't matter how much weight you gain you still feel entitled to an orgasm. I guess taking all those feminist classes in college wasn't a complete waste of money for your dad. I bet he rests at night easy knowing that your fat ass is getting hammered by a big black cock.

And I know that the reason I don't have a girl person, even a girl person like you, is that I am slacker and somehow being a slacker is worse than being a drug pusher. "At least drug pushers have ambition" and your biology compels you to mate with men who can take care of you. I understand that part of the psychology of women. What I don't understand is how you mix up the ideal of a 'man with ambition' with the current incarnation of man you are with who drinks all of your Budweiser and replaces it with the Natural Light that he steal from his pot head friends.

What makes even less sense to me is that most of the women who read this blog have money and don't need a man to take care of them. Even if they didn't have money, our modern society allows you to exert control over your own finances. But women are filled with the funniest anxieties. You all wonder how a man will react to you ending up in a wheel chair. Even though most people will never become paralyzed you constantly quiz your man over his desire to remain with you if "something truly awful ever happened to you."

The truth is most people bail in those situations, and you aren't being any different to me in my situation so stop being so judgmental. You aren't paralyzed, or horribly disfigured, but I am poor which is the male equivalant. I am a bonafide slacker and therefore I will be unable to care for you. You don't need to worry about the possibility of me running off on you as you get older and ugly, as you are already bailing out on me faster than K-fed after he gets a girl pregnant. So the real question is not if I will stick around if you get deformed, that is a difficult mental equation invlolving my emotional attachment to you that has to be balanced by my future ability to acquire someone better. I make that calculation every second I am with you and asking me to turn that unconscious mechanism off is like asking me to stop breathing. I can try for a while but all it will do is is leave my blue in the face.

No, the only real question here to ask, is are you going to look past my inability to earn to see the real human being I am? Stop obsessing over hypothetical questions about the future. Ask yourself how you feel right now.

My guess is you can't, because deep down inside women are not liberated enough yet as a species. You ask questions like that because you don't assume you can take care of yourself. You aren't really looking for a partner, just a substitute for daddy in the bad times. Plenty of men date ugly women, thereby violating the state of nature that our male gender bequeaths to us, but most homeless men have to make do with raping shut ins- no matter how witty and clever they may be- because so few women have any real confidence in navigating life by themselves.

Britney Spears is a white trash faliure at being a Mom, so no one minds if she tries to kill herself,at least Larry King can blog how he hates Dr Phil

I hear voices. Baby jesus talks to me through a toaster oven. He tells me I need to check on some things at my Laotian mini-wife turkey baster impregnation farm. The morning is cold, grey and overcast. A Black helicopter's spotlight breaks through the clouds, peering down at me.

George Bush's secret "fascists escape route" is located next door to me in the remote Paraguayan jungle. I know this because of the black helicopters that constantly encircle my farm and because I am on good terms with, Steve Nash' s wife, the world's third most famous Paraguayan.

At one of the pump stations I meet up with Mini-wife #434. She has on stiletto heals that add 3 inches in height. That brings her to a full 2 foot 3. She's proud of her heels and she stands provocatively as to show them off. If she were green you'd swear to god she was leprechaun.

"Ohh, Larry, me love you long time." Asian mini wife number 434 coos.

"Gamble...gamble." My tiny Laotian mini-wife barks at me. She points to a pumping station. "Ok. Ok, I'll get somebody on that."

It's early. And I need my breakfast. But the goddamn toaster won't shut up. He keeps shouting something about a gurney and being hauled off. And how K-fed is the Antichrist. And Britney isn't crazy. But I've seen that girls pussy and it looks like somebody gave it a good whack with a meat tenderizer. I tell the toaster oven that I think Britney's found god, just like that Baptist woman from Houston who killed all her kids in the bathtub. I tell the toaster to mind his own business, that frankly having to deal with Doctor Phil trying to bust you out of rehab is as close as any of us ever wants to get to the apocalypse. That one of the authors of the "Left Behind" rapture books thought about adding the exact same scene in a chapter of his book, but it was deemed too frightening by his publishers. "I can imagine the unending torment of a lake pit of fire in hell," I tell the toaster, "but I can't imagine the pain of having to listen to 15 straight minutes of Dr. Phil's southern bullshit."

Larry King blogs every Thursday night at 6 P.M., when he's not too drunk he posts. Visit Larry King Blogs here and be his best friend forever on the MySpace. 776 Laotian Mini-Wives crave Larry's cock and don't know why.

Kant attack ad

The big news of the week was that Britnet Spears has a baby bump again. Let's just hope K-fed is the dad and Britney is actually pregnant. Just so Britney can't use the "quit calling me fat" headline that Party of 5 star jennifer Love Hewitt used to steal away Brit Brit's thunder.

Jenn, you are fat, and it couldn't have happened to a nicer girl. You seem Sweet, and kinda smart. And at one time you were the hottest thing going. But you've got issues. Girl issues. You just want to eat chocolate, be in a relationship, and feel all tingly inside all the time from tiny happy leprechauns dancing in your tummy. But those aren't leprechauns, jenny, those are tiny aborted fetuses that your boyfriend forgot to vacu-suck out of you after he fed you all those morning after pills. I'm sorry. I truly am.

Now watch an attack ad by Imanuel Kant vs. Nietzsche

I am a winner

The universe is always looking out for me. Like just today I learned that I could win a prize simply by clicking on Kevin Federline's search engine.

How cool is that? What's the prize you ask? You can win tickets to attend K-Fed's birthday party. Wow. Do you think I care that accommodations and travel are not included. Hell no. Who wouldn't want a chance to meet the Fed? Even if it means paying for it.

Want more proof that God loves me?

It turns out the cat and dog food you've been giving your animal companions is slowly killing them. I knew if I prayed long enough god would revenge me.

I've been reading Jung lately. His answer to Job. God is amoral. Unconscious. An antinomy of contradictions. Yes, god attacked me with a German Sheppard. But god also got his revenge against that animal.

Millions of pets slain. Perhaps that's why in the future we domesticate the ape. And plant the seeds of our own destruction.

Oops I did it again,

Not only does Brit love a good dirty Sanchez she ends all of her life long commitments by e-mail.

Brit Brit filed for divorce by Text message. Go here to witness K-fed almost getting upset while looking at a text message on his phone.

World exclusive. That some chick spammed me with.

Evil teen "pop princess" divorces dancing "hero."

Brittney Spears filed for divorce. I am pretty sure this is disaster for my book idea. Who's gonna want to read about K-Fed now that he is not royalty by marriage?

No one, that's who.

I may have to get a job at Circle K. I just never considered myself brave enough to work there before. But if the "Fed" can handle all the shit that goes his way, I guess I can put my life in harms way so that you can get your Slurpie™ on.

The Hunting of K-Fed Vol.2

"Sometimes I wish that things hadn't gotten so screwed up between us."

I know you are probably holding all those things I said about you against me.

Like how I told you that Brittney was so way cuter before she ever laid eyes on you. That you aren't successful because of anything you ever did other than forget to use that condom you never think of buying.

Or how you are just a young preteen girl's trailer park trash wet dream. Or like how I imagined Brit's vulva needed to be "popped in a Florida trailer park restroom floor."

Maybe I shouldn't have said any of those things. I guess the "what if" question lingers throughout anything and everything that goes down.

But I still don't think that is any reason to avoid me.

Because you can't avoid destiny. I am going to ghost write that autobiography of yours. How do you think stories like this end? Nothing but fairy tales, man. You are going to rescue me.

Take a hard look at your music, man. Nobody understands you any better. They just gonna toss around words like wigger. I am not black, so I am not sure if I can even use the word wigger. But I did. Maybe one of my black friends will tell me to take it out of this post. And if they do, I will. But that doesn't stop you from being a wigger, or from the whole world thinking your a wigger.

We aren't myspace friends. It's cool. I'm really glad that everything is where it is between us, for now. If I could have it one way or the other, I'm still glad I have it this way. Because trials only make you stronger man, ask Saddam. You take as long as you need to get there man.

Just get there is all.

This post is dedicated to the art of stealing someone else's blog post and making it your own. Go see.

The Hunting Of K-Fed. Vol.1

After reading an article on K-fed I decided that I had come up with my next employment opportunity.

But my little money making scam has come up against a small snag. Kevin Federline doesn't want to be my friend.

I can't believe that Kevin Federline has so many friends that he can ignore my requests on My.Space to add me, but he has.

But if K-Fed is half as smart as I think he is, then he will end up adding me as his friend.

And I will then be able to ask him my idea about becoming his Ghost Writer for his Pre-Brittney Autobiography. What a glorious opportunity for the impressionable youth out there to learn about all the hints and secrets and life stories that a man of his stature, age and wisdom can impart upon us.

I look forward to carrying out K-Fed's message, whatever it is.

I don't always dream about Steve Nash's wife

Sometimes I dream that I actually sat down and wrote that "greatest American novel of all time."

In the dream I sold just over 170,000 books which puts me on the same path as that fat chick from Facts of life, Blair.

That's just like me. Being a lot like celebrities. Like when I am poor I just eat a lot of bologna sandwiches and I eat them on white bread just like K-Fed does.

That makes me feel good, cuz like man that K-fed he got big. He blew up, especially after doing that whole reality series Kaotic. And he got paid. Sure he is gonna throw it all away on that new album of his, but what the fuck. Se la Vi, Motherfucker. That's what I always say.

Whenever I dream of making a lot of money I always have these real intense dreams of how I spend the money. Like I get into arguments with people in the dream about if I should redecorate the condo I buy with granite or marble tile. And watching all those shows on the Home Channel about flipping isn't helping either. Cuz I really think I know what I am talking about now.

K-fed knows what I mean:

I like that real journalism. I like putting other people's words in a sentence and making people, like, their faces light up about it. Not frown. Light up.

Straight up Fed. That is exactly why I want to write that book. You should have seen the faces of my family when I told them my plans. Cuz you always gotta have plans on how you're gonna make it. And mine was like, hey man, I am gonna write me a book.

And I am gonna write Oprah a bit part in the book. She will be like Gaea or something in it. If you get Oprah to talk about your book, you are guaranteed bank. That women could hustle ice cubes to people with ice cubes. Tell 'em that her cubes are way better and that their lives would be incomplete without her's. And people wouldn't even think about buying those cubes, Man. No, instead they would probably just shoot themselves because they didn't have it in 'em to think to buy her cubes in the first place.

That's fucking power, man. That's fucking power. I am not saying getting power like that is my goal or would even be a good idea. But If I got it I am sure I would use it for good. Mostly. I mean sure I would prolly make the age of consent something like 15.

But Alabama already did that.