Friday, August 29, 2008
Once again, we're reporting to you from the WWHM Headquarters, located in beautiful downtown Dubuque, Iowa, right across from Wing C of Tom's Animal Rendering Plant!
Do you like my outfit? Does it make your loins quiver like a plate of pudding riding atop an Albanian train car?
Well it's not even done yet! You see, all it took was one quick call to Tom's Rendering Plant next door, and Tom agreed to hack the wings off a live ptarmigan. What for? I'm going to paste them on my back using a small jar of edible rubber cement, and I'll be the cutest uncircumcised cupid ever.
As for the rest of the ptarmigan, Tom went down to Bread Hut and slapped the carcass onto an 8 foot wheat hoagie. As soon as we grind up the beak and talons, my staff will enjoy the finest ptarmigan sandwiches this side of Colorado Springs. And as a special bonus, any employee that finds an eyeball in their slice gets $3 off next year's vision plan. Am I a great boss or what?
Anyway, you're probably asking "Hey Weasel, why are you dressed up like a Special Olympics cupid?"
Well readers, I'm dressed up as a Special Olympics bronze medal winning cupid because today we celebrated our 2 month anniversary. And my cupid outfit is just a gentle reminder that if any of you defect from visiting WWHM on a weekly basis, I'm going to sneak into your home and shoot you with my "Arrow of Unfortunate Circumstances".
That's right! And what does that mean? That means you have to go on a date with the guy that got the most votes for the worst personal ad on WWHM. And right now, with 48 votes, that means you get to go on a date with It's a Dirty Job.
Congratulations It's A Dirty Job, and have a slice of warm ptarmigan sandwich. If it's still moving, just smash it on the counter top a couple times.
Have a great weekend WWHM'ers, and keep sending me ads, love notes and hate mail! I love it all! Why? Because I'm a pathetic narcissist!
See you next week, and let's do the posts!
Thursday, August 28, 2008
This weather is just blah. Don't really want to do anything productive. Want to meet for a drink and fuck like they do on the Discovery Channel?
Looks like someone has some free time, an oxygen-starved penis, and a spare key to Walt's Costume Bazaar.
Meet Blue Satin, a putridly disgusting superhero who inflicts upon his enemies the mind-boggling power of overwhelming nausea.
I don't know about you, but if I was running down the street after a jewelry heist and ran into a thunder-thighed Discovery Channel enthusiast with a purple semi-asphyxiated anteater snout seeping out of his clown trousers like a common vine snake, I'd turn and run until I reached outer Buenos Aires, where I'd build a hut in the llanos, change my name to Felix Algerrios Pueniros, and spend eternity eating weevils and stabbing my eyeballs with palm fronds.
Blue Satin 1, Weasel 0.
So what part of this ad is supposed to attract women?
The dialogue? It tells us you're unmotivated, there's a cold front in the area, and you paid your Comcast bill. If that alone got guys laid, I wouldn't be sitting here knee-deep in Bulgarian transsexual hookers.
The photo? That photo just made 3,000 vaginas seal tighter than the open end of a plastic sandwich bag inserted into a boiling hot Wal-Mart hair crimper.
You don't need that tiny weapon Blue Satin.
To women, you're already fucking kryptonite.
I am 20 years old, white male, 5′10″, 190lbs, 13% body fat. I want to clean your home for you. I charge only $40/hour and will wash your clothes, clean your home, clean your car, fix your computer, make your bed, run errands for you, yard work, house sit, pet sit, etc. I am willing to do it fully clothed, wearing only some clothes, wearing clothes you pick for me, or wearing nothing at all. Dale.
I used to offer my services as a naked housecleaner.
Unfortunately, the only payment I could ever arrange was a small meal from whatever I found underneath the couch cushions. And I tell you what, a man can truly find his core when the best meal he eats all week is fourteen calico cat hairs draped across a Cheez-It. It was like licking on a raccoon's unmoistened udder in an elementary school sandbox.
Eventually the buildup of Windex on my balls became so deep my girlfriend stopped giving me blowjobs, simply because she didn't like watching her reflection on my scrotum. I promptly quit, and found new employment in organic cow insemination.
Dale here has picked my slack, but he charges $40 an hour. That's an awful lot of money to charge a woman for laughter.
Women have a difficult enough time as it is welcoming a plumber into their homes whose ass crack is so deep it has mining carts coming out of it. How do you think they feel about paying you $40 an hour to watch you get on all fours naked and extract a chewed piece of pineapple Trident from the carpeting? No sale, Dale.
I'd rather buy your 13% body fat estimate. That's like a baleen whale coming up to me with a straight face and trying to convince me he's an eel.
Plus, you're 20 and male. What the fuck do you know about cleaning? Single guys in their late 20's clean a plate when it has mold on it. Single guys in their mid 20's clean a plate when it has moss on it. Guys in their early 20's don't even clean the plate when it has prehistoric lichen on it. I surmise if I entered your apartment bathroom right now, I'd find your toilet nursing its young.
If you hire him, don't be surprised if he asks to see your "buh-gina."
Votes have drizzled out, but we here at WWHM felt two of oldest entries deserved Hall status. They didn't quite meet the 20 vote threshhold, but a lot of the newer readers probably never had the chance to read that far back, or most likely were too nauseous to accomplish such a feat. Plus, Beautiful Boy made the cut!
Anyway, welcome our new inductees!
This is Why Cocaine Is Illegal
So Beautiful It Hurts
Congratulations guys. You win a sack of corned beef and a garden trowel.
Remember readers, keep spreading the good word of WWHM to your friends!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
This is The Weasel, reporting to you once again from WWHM Headquarters located in beautiful downtown Dubuque, Iowa, right across from Wing C of Tom's Animal Rendering Plant.
And look who dropped by today! It's Tom, the owner of the rendering plant/ slaughter shack right next door! We barely recognized him without his usual slick, viscous coating of congealed farm bird entrails.
Tom just got back from his folks place in West Palm Beach, Florida, and he came over to show us his rich new tan, porn-issued moustache, and waterfall-of-poo hairstyle. Lookin' good Tom, and with those black Wal-Mart slacks on, you look like you're on your way to the Dubuque Chippendales to gyrate your genitals into the mortified faces of Iowa's most obscenely bored housewives.
Anyway ladies, WWHM received an extraordinary number of emails from readers this week, each containing a filthy, oily sheen of nastiness thicker than Tom's hair after his morning application of Castrol 10W-30 High Mileage Engine Oil. What does that mean?
It means we've got some doozies today, so grab your clam buckets, assume the position, and get ready to rumble.
For you new readers coming on today, let me forewarn you. This blog is disgusting, rude, atrocious and immature. Seriously. I don't know what demon seed led you here, but if you don't like that kind of humor, now is a good time to leave. In fact, I think a Murder She Wrote marathon starts in 5 minutes, and I left some LoL Cats scrapbooks in the lobby for you to peruse. Here's a starter: I wantz to eet a FeRn. Now run with it.
For the rest of my readers, I've noticed a trend after studying the blog over the weekend. A lot of readers tune in for the ads only, so we're gonna shift a little bit more to the ads, and a little less to my endless rambling about topics associated with the ads. Sometimes. But I'm way too arrogant to do that all the time, but we're gonna mix it up a little. Some ads short, some ads long.
But all gross ads.
Please readers, I always like to get your feedback, so any suggestions, comments or insults can be directed to the Weasel at firstname.lastname@example.org. Love to hear from you, good or bad.
Let's do those posts!
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
I have a fetish. I would really like to go down on a woman during her period. What I want is you to start your period and don't put a tampon in. Just email me and I will meet you anywhere you desire and go down on you for as long as you want. Please, Im serious about this someone has to want to do this. Please email Mark at XXXXXX@XXXXX.com, surprise me in the week I'm here, wife is out of town!
We here at WWHM have never heard of this phenomenon before.
Oh, wait a minute, we're WWHM. Of course we have.
Now if all you ladies would stop your collective gagging for a moment, we can get back to this personal ad.
While most women believe Mark should immediately be thrown into a boiling cauldron of angry asps, or perhaps skinned alive with salted envelope lips, maybe we ought to analyze what's really going on here.
Menstruation is a natural process. But women tend to treat it like they'd been stabbed at random by a homeless man in the train station. They're emotionally confused and distraught, they're bleeding, they're angry, they're defensive, and they sure as shit don't want to do the fucking dishes you fucking goddamn cocksucker, but you can't even do them right anyhow you fucking shit-for-brains asshole, it's not like you ever buy me anything anyway. Oh, sorry... I was menstruating. I got a little hysterical.
Anyway, just as if they had been stabbed by a homeless psychotic, women need at least a week to heal physically and psychologically from their periods. They may experience extreme mood swings during this week, hence the "Jekyll and Hyde" nature of menstruation. If you bother them at all for any reason, such as breathing rudely, they may react by sternly chewing the head off your dog and shoving it into the glove compartment of your Nissan. But at least they will fold the chewed-off head into neat, tidy little squares.
But what about sex? Therein lies the problem for men. Is it really wrong to have sexual contact during menstruation?
50% of women proclaim they are hornier while on their period, and the other 50% don't want sex at all. In a nutshell, men are essentially playing Russian roulette with their penis. When they ask for sex, they don't really know whether to expect a punch in the face, a weak handshake, or the sexual experience of a lifetime possibly involving a saddle, a swingset, fourteen giraffes and a box of vitamin-fortified cinnamon rolls.
And Mark's a gambler. Mark sees menstruation only as the natural process that it is, which is your body simply shedding unused eggs. And he doesn't really see the process as disgusting in nature. And maybe he likes eggs.
But does that make him disgusting?
Well, yes it does. Very.
want to try this out . im steve cum on over and give it a go i have something different for u to try i do love to eat a nice freshly washed pussy and make it cum i have built a fucking machine and would like to find a woman to give it a go. i would just like to watch as you cum over and over agin i have just made a fucking a mchine that actually works .7.5in tool with a nice long stroke it will get in that sweet pussy and make her cum . i have a vid if u would like to see it working .
Thanks Steve, now I know just what to get everyone for Christmas. Except grandma.
I'd hate to eat a delicious cake prepared with grandma's new "brown pulsating cake froster." Especially after watching her lick the remnants off her new favorite tool.
Anyway Steve, please send us the video of your machine in action.
Looking to share?
Yes, I'd like to share something with you.
Do you know that I just prepared a lovely dinner?
I made a nice steak, some rice pilaf, and dare I say it, a tossed salad. I sat down to check my email, opened your file, and up popped your lovely personal ad.
It was like getting smashed in the face with a broth-covered oven door.
There aren't any donkeys with halitosis around here, but someone certainly needs an ass mint.
When women say they want to see your ass Victor, they mean your ass, not your fucking pancreas. If this is the kind of photo you post to meet women, I'd hate to see what's on top of your fireplace. A photo of Dad's scrotum? A good ol' black-n-white of grandma's labia? A snapshot of Uncle Joe's pubic clippings?
Do me a favor, and DON'T send me a Christmas card.
If anyone wants my brownie, they can have it.
I have a shitload of grass, and i am willing to exchange it for some quality time with a lady who likes to smoke weed and spend some quality time withme. I wuld like to find a woman that is wake n bake totally shaved and wouldnt mind me spending some quality time with her ass and pussy. You must have had adiquate wax job on both your ass and pussy to qualify. my interests include POTT!!hiking, bike riding thru local parks (no =hills lol), sailing and motocross .Erik
I like that Erik takes the time to list pot, biking, hiking, sailing, and motocross as his interests, other than his primary interest in licking your ass. After all, who doesn't like a little ass-licking after a 50 mile bike ride?
But if Erik is anything like the other heavy pot smokers I know, here's another list of some things you'll never do with him: biking, hiking, sailing and motocross. If you want to get him off the couch for more than 5 minutes, make a pan of enchiladas and burn the furniture.
Which only leaves you with pot smoking and ass licking, a good combination only if you're stuck at a Fleetwood Mac concert with a half-gram of Mexican weed and one hallucinogenic frog.
Smoking pot has other disadvantages besides having to tell him ten times that you really do like his drawing of Hello Kitty having a laser fight with Godzilla.
Heavy pot smoking can lead to severe erectile dysfunction, leaving his penis much softer than his long-term job prospects. Studies have also shown that high THC levels cause sperm to become slow and erratic, which is a real shocker. That's what happens when sperm spend all day lying around the testes watching The Jetsons and voraciously consuming the orange powder residue of 18 bags of Cheetos.
You ever see a guy cum a luminescent orange? Yeah, he's probably a pot smoker.
Friday, August 22, 2008
If you don't know how to get here, just exit I-18 at Sequoia Ave, drive three blocks, and turn left once you the hear the blood-curdling screams of 25,000 brutally slaughtered turkeys.
What a week we had! We had a lovely young man who masturbated into his shoes, a pleasant gentleman who wanted the ladies to milk his breasts, followed by an overconfident man-ape and a guy obviously very in touch with his clitoris. Boy, I love it when the Christian Coalition comes into town.
So loyal reader Cut N' Jump came to the offices today because she owed me a green ceiling fan, a jar of capers, and a snow shovel. (Please refer all questions to Cut N Jump.) She's tells me "Oh, ok, but I have to bring the dickhead."
"What, " I asked, "he's not nice to you?"
"No, " she answered, "you'll see when he gets here."
And in comes this guy, and well, he just looks like a dick. Like literally, he just removed his head, and placed the enormous penis tip of a Bering Sea brown whale onto his shoulders. And he's just been sitting in my executive pool all day, siphoning plankton and making sonar noises that frighten my staff.
Cut N' Jump, that's the last time you bring your whale-penised-headed friends over here. My pool smells like fatty sea blubber, and the drain is ass-deep in crab claws.
Have a great fucking weekend WWHM'ers, I'm ouuuttttttttttta here!
Thursday, August 21, 2008
I desire to find you now.I am going to give up soooo much just to meet you and take a chance on true love. I have shed tears every time I read a romantic greeting card because I do not have someone to tell those beautiful things to-(ok i feel like crying)!! The next lady to connect with me will be the happiest on the planet because I have learned soo much being in a loveless relationship. I can't wait to snuggle with you. And kiss you lightly. And breathe slowly as I whisper how much I love your eyes. Whew...thanks for reading this and if interested send me a note.
I knew I shouldn't have played Scrabble in that fragrant puddle of zephyr excrement. Because suddenly I feel violently ill.
But was it the zephyr dumplings? Or was it something else? I felt really good at first, but suddenly got really sick. Like when I used to play "Name That Gland" with my Cub Scout Troop Leader.
Maybe it was something I read. Something cheesy and totally unappetizing, like an old Beef Hot Pocket wrapped in a bad personal ad, served with a bowl of twice-salted horse shit and a bucket of starched muenster.
At first this personal ad mimicked a dainty quail feather dusting lightly against my esophagus. It tickled, like a baby bunny giggling sawdust from his nostrils into my eustachian tubes. Warm waves of hope and sunshine licked at my heart like trickling aqua waves spilling onto the shore of a summer pond in a cool breeze.
But my stomach began to gurgle and pulse when he took a chance on true love, and I took a chance not running to the toilet with my finger in my mouth and my cheeks blown full of partially digested Doritos.
He shed tears as he read a greeting card, but I had no tears to shed as I had already extracted my own eyeballs with a rusty garden trowel and grated them on an industrial cheese slicer to forever sear the images of his faulty prose from my synapses.
He wanted to snuggle. I wanted to beat his grandmother with a Christmas rake.
He wanted to kiss you lightly. I wanted to donkey-punch a newborn giraffe in the appendix.
He wanted to whisper in your ear. I wanted to detach from society, build a nest in my laundry hamper, lie in the fetal position, and lick the scant moisture from a satchel of skinned grapes until I withered away from scurvy.
Maybe I'm over-reacting. But these estrogen-fueled pantywaists posting their sing-song suck-up sonnets and dreamy haikus need to stop gurgling Massengill and climb off their My Pretty Pony for a second and realize that while I may think you're a pussy, women think you're even more of a pussy than I do.
Women have enough drama with one pussy as it is. They don't need another one.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
So I opened my drawer last night to grab some sleep aid and noticed that unused pack labelled 'Trojan Lubricated' in there. A quick peek at the expiration date revealed "08/2008". Now, I'd hate to throw perfectly functioning condoms away, and I feel really bad about their silent death if I just let them expire. Instead, they should experience a happy ending. Ethan
I know just how you feel Ethan.
I found a rotten cornish game hen in the trunk of my car today. The package says it expires tomorrow.
Maybe you'd like to come over and eat it.
Anyway Don Juan, you shouldn't use condoms you bought in 2004. Just wrap the head of your penis with Scotch tape, don't tell her you have syphilis, and pray.
Your condoms are lonelier than the dinnerware at the Gay and Black Republicans table at the Republican National Convention. Give those condoms the happy ending they deserve by throwing them in the trash.
Unless of course you consider getting ripped open with your teeth, welded to a stranger's penis until he throws up on you, and discarded onto a stale lemon urinal cake in a shitty tavern bathroom a "happy ending."
And for the record, Paris Hilton calls that "an average Tuesday night."
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Hey there, I’m a professional gentleman with a full chest of hair, good for running your fingers through and pulling on. 6 foot tall with wide soulders and strong arms. I’m sexy because I’m confident and I can stimulate your body and basic instincts with just a look. You can’t handle this much sexy. I’ll have you begging for more. Ian
"I'll have you begging for more."
Ian, I don't know what you think women will be begging for more of, but I'm pretty sure it's not going to be body hair. Last time I saw that much hair on a body, it was standing in a remote Alaskan river gnawing on a salmon.
You know, it's funny, every time Ian goes out to eat at a restaurant, everyone finds a hair in their soup.
Anyway, immediately after opening this ad my throat began to tickle and my cat vomited up a hairball the size of a Ford Taurus, so I feel that Ian might suffer from a medical condition called hypertrichosis, defined as "an excessive growth of terminal body hair." Women tend to refer to hypertrichosis by its more common household name, "Eeeeewwww." If Bigfoot takes your picture, that's a bad sign.
In prehistoric times, scientists theorize the female was attracted to a thick coat of body hair, as it was a symbol of virility and masculinity. But evolution changed all that, as abundant body hair also provided a healthy habitat for numerous deadly ectoparasites and body lice, many of which were carriers of horrifying, disfiguring diseases. Hmmm, Ian, I don't seem to remember you putting that in your ad. "I'm a walking petri dish infested with body lice. How about coffee, followed by the generous application of an assortment of acidic medicinal shampoos?"
Every woman has a different opinion on the attractiveness of male body hair. Some women like no body hair, some women like a little, and some women prefer a thick, hairy chest. But I don't think any woman is prepared for the fucking pubic explosion imminent when those pants come off. Ian, you're a suicide bomber packing ball hairs. Finding your cock must be like finding a carrot in a redwood forest. Want to give him a blowjob? Bring two hairclips and litter some fucking cracker crumbs on your way in.
Ian is probably a nice enough guy, but I think his obvious false arrogance tipped the scales towards "bad ad". And believe me Ian, you'll never pull off the suspenders-with-no-shirt look unless you're standing between an Indian and a construction worker on stage at the county fair singing "YMCA". It doesn't work for anybody. Ever.
But I'm sure he's a great guy, and he even has his own special method of thanking you every morning after you sweep the bed. He can show you how much he loves you in a very special way that no one else can, with the exception of a Mongolian prairie yak.
Monday, August 18, 2008
looking for 1st time hookup. i have full female type tits. looking to jack off while you play with my tits and cock as well. be clean, discreet std and and non pushy. so if you like a big guy. get back to me .
I thought today was going to be a great day.
I woke up early without morning wood, peacefully stuck my head out the window, and whistled along with several colorful songbirds. Two young lambs danced under my window and playfully head-butted each other. My toast came out perfectly browned.
I had a cup of coffee in my satin robe while sitting on my porch in the sun. Young, nubile Polynesian girls intermittently fed me perfectly cubed melon slices and rubbed my temples with plain organic yogurt. I cracked open a Fortune Cookie. My fortune said "Life is good." And it was.
Then I opened my email.
It took a while to register. What is this? An eyeball? An octopus? An enchilada? Is it a.... a .....oh no.
Storm clouds gathered. A wayward dog walked into my study and shit on my loafers. I got a parking ticket. My girlfriend got season passes to the ballet.
Publisher's Clearing House showed up in a Yugo with a check for a dime. Extenz infomercials on every channel. My Mom called me to tell me about bowel troubles. One of the Polynesian girls whipped out her cock and slapped it on my the forehead.
I crawled outside into the pouring rain on my hands and knees. I reached skyward and extended my arms towards the heavens. "Why God? Why do I do this goddamned blog?" I screamed.
The clouds parted, and a beam of bright light struck my forehead. A booming voice bellowed out "Because, motherfucker, someone has to expose these fucking disgusting shitbags to the babes. I chose you. Now get back to work you little whiny poo. And I command you to create a WWHM Hall of Fame, featuring the worst of the worst, and the best of the worst. Now go away, I'm watching the Brazilian Olympic beach volleyball team."
And so it was. Further nominations are now being accepted. For the Best (or Worst) of WWHM. On the left.
Automatic first inductions awarded to Tim's Hairy Snack Shack, The Cunning Linguist, Dirty Job, and Show-Off, just for being mind-bogglingly disgusting.
I'm going back to bed. To fondle my man-tits.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
I'm alone and sad in my dark hotel room jerking off to porn, do you want to come join me so you can lick up all the cum I'm dripping on my shoes? I'm 5'5, 260 lbs, and pretty desperate, will you help me out? I have Doritos, Ruffles, some dip and beers in my room plus the liquor cabinet we can open.
Ah, WWHM back to its roots.
We found a personal ad with all the sex appeal of a Japanese narwhal slaughter.
I don't know about you, but $100 says a woman would get more turned on watching a burning Special Olympics charter bus plunge into a mine shaft full of defenseless show kittens.
What's bad about the ad?
A curious male puppy dry-humping a pair of jogging shoes might seem cute; it's simply an involuntary biological response dictated by the whims of his maturing testicles.
A grown man fornicating with his work boots creates no such light-hearted whimsy; it only creates what many might consider a fucking crime scene.
Describing yourself as "5'5, 260 lbs and pretty desperate" is generally only acceptable to women if you're an abnormally short moose cornered by starved bears. But if you're a short, overweight and desperate man with an abundance of unhealthy snack products masturbating into his welding clogs on a Friday night, you might want to spice up your description a little.
And lastly, sir, your choice of a "cave" photo was poor. Women are generally not attracted to caves, unless of course they are out on a blind date with guys like you and they run into their friends. In that case, yes, they may crawl into a cave, or perhaps dig their own cave like a fucking meerkat hopped up on an eight-ball of crank.
Oh wait. Maybe that's your hotel?
Friday, August 15, 2008
You know, there's nothing I love more than sharing with my new readers the type of quality individuals we study here at WWHM.
See this guy?
This guy is a catch compared to most the guys I post on this blog. Look at those firm hamstrings, those supple and sprightly dancer's toes, and that teasing, gentle prairie of wafting coarse hairs waving to and fro between his ample, yearning man-breasts. He looked even better five minutes ago when he was nursing an elk.
I'd let you get closer, but unfortunately, he packed that diaper full of old river smelt last week, and frankly the gamy, musky effervescence emanating from that corner of the room right now could fell a charging herd of wildebeests in two seconds flat.
Anyway, what we do here at WWHM is analyze men's personal ads. Why do we do that? Well, we do it to make people laugh, and we do it in hopes that somewhere out there men will begin to realize that "Hey, I always complain that women are bitches all the time, but in reality, maybe I'm just a clueless, pathetic excuse for a human being." And 99% of the time, that's exactly what it is. That's why I'm here.
I'm your fearless leader, The Weasel, and I will act as your condom to the internet. If you read WWHM on a daily basis, I promise you the sperm of these men will never drop on anything other than the pages of a glossy magazine, or perhaps your pillowcases if you happen to be out of town for more than three days and you leave a window open.
So I welcome you new readers, and once again I welcome the incredible crew of loyal WWHM'ers who know my schtick all too well by now.
Let's do the posts..............
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
I don't think this is the kind of guy you want to call for hot, spontaneous sex. But if you ever need to know the subway schedule, definitely put his ass on speed dial.
I think a lot of women have finally figured out that if they truly want variety in the bedroom, they'll have to install a salad bar.
You see, women tend to thrive on sexual spontaneity. You never see a man bragging that he got fucked so hard in the car last night that he woke up with the word "Nissan" plastered across his jawline. Why? Because women love to know that a man wants them so badly they cannot control themselves. Women don't want sex planned out all the time. And if that means head-butting 37 cantaloupe-shaped skull dents in the Hyatt service elevator, so be it.
All women know the same-tired-recipe guys like AJ. He plans sex for 9PM sharp, and "foreplay" commences at 8:59 when he dislodges his penis from his Hagar wrinkle-free slacks and lets it dangle like a breeze-blown windsock in front of your face. He then looks at you, then back at his dick, and then back at you, implying that perhaps his penis contains some kind of miracle youth cream you should be begging for.
You want him to do something new like talk dirty to you, but all he can come up with is "Your vagina feels like a nicely waxed car seat", murmured with all the monotone conviction of the Prudential Insurance Automated Helpline.
You want him to start by nibbling on your ears for a change, and instead he juices up his tongue and dives for dopamine in your ear canal like he's forcing a garden slug into the smallest available cheesehole in a large chunk of swiss.
You want him to finally go down on you, and he laps at you like a dog licking the knee of a crying, wounded child. Ironic in that they both think they are helping you feel better, but in reality, all they're really doing is slopping a bunch of saliva on something that would really be better off if you just left it alone.
For guys like this, it's all about the finished product (his orgasm), but with no focus on the process (yours).
So AJ, you're not stirring any fallopians here with your well-planned, timed-to-the-minute sexual encounter. But I do have an idea of something spontaneous you could do. How about you go home and fuck your wife?
Funny how you didn't mention that in your ad.
Is your kitty kitty hungry? I' m Leonard, and I have just what she likes, kibbles & bits. Satisfaction guaranteed. Good for all breeds and ages, while supplies last, at no cost to you. Not available for dogs.
For those of you who think I just sit down in my fine velvet smoking jacket and corn cob pipe and just belt these things out, well, your silly little hypothesis couldn't be any further from the truth. At the WWHM Headquarters, we actually do research.
What kind of research you ask?
Well, something seemed wrong with this ad. Something besides the fact that it was placed by a bow-backed, octogenarian Australopithecus that reeked of month-old lunch meat, mothballs, and a sack of expired carrots.
No, we seem to remember that Kibbles n' Bits wasn't made for cats. In fact, it was made for dogs.
And, according to their website, Kibbles n' Bits aims to provide high-quality proteins for muscle growth, rich fibers for solid stool expulsion, and fats designed for healthier skin and fur.
Hmmm. Maybe you should eat that fucking bag, Leonard.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
But if you can't fuck a mattress, what can you fuck?
Well, if you're like this guy, you can fuck a park bench. Only, if your penis gets stuck in the park bench, well, then you have a whole new set of problems. Problems that your new friends from the local police and fire departments will handle professionally, as well as provide them stories for cocktail hour for the next six or seven generations. If you thought it was hard to get laid before, try getting laid after millions of people have seen you on the news attempting to copulate with metal park furniture.
No park benches around? Well why not do what everyone else does? Just grab a claw hammer, pour some actual motor oil into your anus, and fuck yourself with the claw hammer while your neighbors look on in absolute horror. Did I make that up? Of course not. Hope you're not a sucker for blue eyes.
Thankfully, some guys just fall back on good ol' feverish hand-to-gland combat. And judging by these dating video rejects, plenty of it. Thank God we can't impregnate sweatsocks.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Ladies it hurts daily. I cry when I go to bed because I just can't seem to find someone as beautiful as I. I've tried everything, bars, Frisbee Golf courses, pools, elementary schools, beauty salons, meeting people through friends, walking dogs that aren't mine, pretending to be a cowboy, even figure skating classes. It is so hard being this beautiful but I think there are some women out there who can help. Flock to me my beautiful women... my name is Luke.
The staff here at WWHM usually twirls the faces of the unsightly ghouls who grace the unfortunate pages of this gonad-strewn sex casserole we call a blog. But today we asked ourselves "Why hurl bison poo at such a beautiful and elegant swan?" So congratulations Luke, you're WWHM's first identifiable entry. Now stop ogling yourself before you pop wood and knock your lunch pudding into the Minit-Lube transmission pit.
If unabashed male self-confidence is the lube that moistens a womans libido, male vanity is the sponge that sucks it drier than the sun-chapped salt-ringed asslips of a dehydrated Somali pack camel.
Merriam Webster defines "vanity" as an "over-inflated sense of pride in one's appearance." I think over-inflated is a valid description; plopping an errant lawn dart into the ego-bloated abyss that is Luke's skull would yield the identical sound you'd find by deflating the entire Goodyear blimp through a caged canary's asshole: 78 uninterrupted hours of "Sssssssssssssss.....".
Beauty is only skin deep Luke, and your skin is thinner than the skin of a grape. And unlike a grape, your skin doesn't quite hold in the whine.
"It's so hard being beautiful", "it hurts daily", and "I cry when I go to bed." Your cries for pity are a poison, and your personal ad is the syrup of ipecac. So while you're out pretending to be a figure skater, a cowboy, and a dog owner, we're going to pretend we're not throwing up when you strike a "Shaved Thunder" pose in front of every mirror you pass, you inconsolable, sappy douchebag.
Will women flock to you? I doubt it. But I'm sure geese will if you fill those fucking elephant ears with popcorn.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Some of the shit I've heard just fucking astounds me.
And I'm not talking about your run-of-the-mill "guy who has no money to pay for the date", or the "guy who throws up on a date" stories, because I think all women have had those dates.
At this point, I barely register an inkling of surprise if a girl tells me a guy whipped his sorry excuse for a cock out and slapped her in the forehead 15 minutes into their first date. It almost seems de rigueur these days.
Anyway, I recently got to spend a weekend hanging out with a couple female friends of mine down in San Diego. They are both single, blonde, and ridiculously hot. As usual, we all began discussing our dating lives. And believe me, these girls get asked out a lot.
You'd think that any guy blessed with the opportunity to date one of these girls would make sure he played his cards right at every juncture of a date. That's what you'd think, but remember, these are the same old fucking douchebag guys we make fun of every day on this blog.
Blonde A proceeded to tell me a story about a guy she had dated briefly. The guy was quirky, but lacking a better alternative, she eventually invited the guy over for dinner with her parents.
Dinner was served, and everyone began chowing down. But midway through dinner, Mr. Meet The Parents gets up from the table. He grabs his bowl of salad, his fork, and heads to the bathroom. And he is gone for an extended period of time. After 10 minutes or so, he returns to the table with his empty bowl and fork.
The oddity of what had transpired was obvious to everyone but the offender. He had actually elected to get up during a meal with her parents, take his salad to the bathroom as he took a shit, finished his salad while he sat in there, and returned to the table as though nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired.
Anyway, well over 1,000 women read WWHM on an average day, so I want to hear the worst of the worst. If you can beat that, please post it in the comments.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Welcome to the home offices of WWHM Headquarters here in beautiful downtown Dubuque, Iowa, right behind Wing C of Tom's Animal Rendering Plant!
Boy, I don't know what they're chopping up over there today, but my car is door-deep in bird spleens and my secretary Beulah just found a finch beak in her grilled cheese.
Speaking of Beulah, there she is at a NASCAR race last weekend having the time of her life with her best friend Julie in the white shirt. Hey Beulah, how 'bout laying off the buffalo balls sandwiches and getting a fucking wax now and then, huh? You're beginning to look like a Nebraskan musk ox in mid-February.
I swear every time I fuck her, I could sweep up the hair and construct a fucking milking goat from scratch.
Anyway, WWHM would like to thank you readers for pushing us over the 100,000 mark just 39 days after we started marketing the blog. What a fantastic streak we've been on! How will we thank you? Well we've got some great articles coming up to provide you ladies with some top-secret information about men, and we will of course continue to analyze the relentless onslaught of the absolute worst personal ads the internet has to offer. All for the low, low price of meeting me behind Wing B of Tom's Animal Rendering Plant once a month for some serious emotional healing. Make sure you sign up for a time slot, or I'm cutting you off!
Stay tuned folks, because we have some great stuff coming up!
As for me, I'm off to the next room to smoke up some of Beulah's back hair in a moldy hashish pipe. Posts!
Monday, August 4, 2008
Need hardwood installed? How about a plumbing inspection? I am nice looking, polite and friendly. I am D/D free. I am available M-F 10 am to 4 pm. Let me help you fulfill your fantasies or just take the edge off. Paul.
When it comes to a sales pitch, some say a picture is worth a 1,000 words.
Unfortunately for Paul, this picture is worth only three words.
Those words are "holy", "fucking", and "shit", murmured in the same tone of heady disbelief you might use had you just witnessed an elephant gnaw the head off a Girl Scout and regurgitate the remnants directly into the mouths of several feral, opened-beaked eaglets.
I think if I were attempting to sell my dog, I don't think I'd select a picture of my dog friction-scraping the congealed poo crisps from his balloon knot by cementing a strip of country bacon across my new pine floors. It just seems to send the wrong message.
Yet, in a surprising display of unbelievable oafsmanship, Paul here would like a date with you, and yet has selected a picture of himself apparently nature-cooling his enchilada vent by butt-sculpting a re-creation of the Special Olympics rings in a snow bank.
Paul, pictures can say a lot about you. Your words may offer free "plumbing" inspections, but your picture prompts women to question the abusive treatment of your own plumbing. God knows what you would do to theirs with those Jimmy Dean sausages you call fingers.
After all, leaving crackers in the bed is one thing. But leaving earthworms is an entirely different story.
The reason I'm posting this here is because when I wrestle girls it is a sexual type of match. I will grab the girls boobs and her crotch during the wrestling match, and yes she can grab me as well. And if your girl who wrestle boys in school, I will not wrestle you either, because you know how brutally humiliating it is for boy to lose to a girl in wrestling but you wrestle boys anyway which, to me, shows you have absolutely no concern whatsoever about the feelings of men, only your own feelings, and that is a form of gender bias and I will not tolerate gender bias. I will not wrestle a girl in public or in front of anyone because there is a chance that the girl will win, and if I'm going to get beat by a girl I'm not going to lose in public. Because it is humiliating to lose to a girl, but if you're a decent woman then you already know that. I'm 5'4 260, I want a woman with big tits, no flat-chested boys. Jack from South Dakota. I live with my sister, she has to leave before we meet. Emial:XXXXXX.XXXXX
Jack, I'm assuming that you really don't have that many mating options living in a small town in South Dakota.
In fact, if I lived there, I would probably wait seven hours outside the town laundromat just to sniff the coins in the lint tray of the dryer that once permanent-pressed your sister's least-favorite farming trousers.
But, surely, I would NOT tolerate gender bias.
For your sister, I would sleep amidst the horrifying cacophony of a pheasant pen for a fortnight only to suffer the brutal and relentless pecking of my eyeballs from 700 sharpened pheasant beaks, just for the opportunity to lick the dried soap dish clean of her ankle sweat in the event she offered me a brief shower in the side house.
But I would certainly NOT tolerate any gender bias.
And in fact, I would even compose a song about aardvarks just in case your sister attended a symposium on mule waxing in San Diego, and got free tickets to the zoo where she might pass by the aardvark exhibit and say "Oh, those are kind of interesting," at which point I could jump out of the shit-riddled meerkat exhibit behind her with a boombox and say "I happen to know a song about aardvarks, " and play it to her in a dramatic fashion like John Cusack in the final scene of Say Anything.
But, of course, I certainly would NOT tolerate ANY gender bias.
I'm sure glad you stick to your guns Jack.
And good luck finding that big-titted subserviant woman with no self-esteem in rural South Dakota who likes short, fat men who lecture them on gender equality whilst physically and sexually abusing them in a trailer home.
I'm sure they're a dime a dozen in South Dakota.
Just like assholes.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Hello, I was wondering if any ladies would help me, I have a really bad problem with premature ejaculation. i need a patient understanding woman to help me through my problem. This may take a couple weeks, but I'm hoping you may want to help me, it's very important as I 'd like to be able to resume a normal sex life in the future. I'm desperate! Please email John at XX@XX. Open to any size or age.
Ferdinand Magellan discovered the Phillipine Islands in 1521, and by 1526, he had dispatched four separate Spanish expeditions to construct a map of the islands, an effort lasting nearly 5 years and requiring the mapmaking skills of 67 different artisans.
My how technology changes things.
John here can shoot a map of the Phillipine Islands on your stomach in 5 seconds all by himself, and he doesn't even need a tide chart.
Alfred Kinsey conducted a study in 1950 which concluded that 75% of men ejaculate within two minutes of penetration in over half of their sexual encounters. Not only did this surprise the scientists, but it also left plenty of time for coffee breaks. Coffee breaks often spent in the lab laundry room, where the female lab participants often "finished the study" on top of a Whirlpool dryer stuck on heavy spin cycle. Oddly, the scientists usually only watched for two minutes. Christ, they're scientists, ok?
Unfortunately for sex scientists, they were only paid by the hour in 1950, so the average annual income of a scientist in 1950 was 98 cents. On the bright side these same scientists went on to develop vibrators, and now they live in gold mansions and wipe their asses with the blonde hair of unwanted Norwegian orphans.
Since Kinsey's study in 1950, specialists in premature ejaculation have determined "premature ejaculation" occurs when a man ejaculates within 1.5 minutes of penetration. In an unrelated study, they also determined it's a really stupid idea to go to a bar and tell chicks "I'm a specialist in premature ejaculation."
So, back to John. It should only take a couple weeks for you to help him cure his problem, but remember, that's approximately 20,160 minutes, or at least 10,080 ejaculations. So make sure you have plenty of towels, and if at all possible, a pair of diving flippers. It's also a great opportunity to pre-decorate the interior of the house for Christmas.
And for John, might I recommend a numbing condom? It's a condom designed to numb your penis so you feel absolutely no sensation at all during penetration. So it's basically like fucking Lindsay Lohan, minus the freckles. Just make sure she doesn't blow you after you wear the condom, because when she comes up, she'll sound kind of like a deaf person trying to give you directions to the Museum of Modern Art.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
I am looking for a woman in the XXXXXX area that has HUGE tits for me to play with. I am OK with not having sex if you don't want to, but would love to get down and dirty with your HUGE tits. I can make our meeting worth your while, I will make sure that if we are having some real fun, you WILL cum. I would like your HUGE tits to be DD at SMALLEST. I don't care about age, race, weight, or if they are real or fake.
Scientists have yet to discover their mystical powers over men, primarily because every time a female lab participant drops her blouse, rivers of free-flowing drool smudge all relevant testing data.
So what is it ladies?
How does a pair of small, pouty breasts beckoning to bounce out of a light cotton sundress like a sprightly young bunny jumping over a newborn fawn cause our brains to function like fucking unscrambled hotel porn?
What fucking swan song do breasts sing that turns the most heinous axe murderers into innocent, playful kittens that lie on their backs and giggle like a pack of youthful, thrice-tickled hyenas?
How is it that a woman can simply walk past a Boy Scout troop in a loose tank top and instantly create enough wood to build a fleet of whaling canoes?
Why has cupping a young woman's firm, supple breast instantly saturated more pairs of teenage boxer shorts than Kenmore and Whirlpool combined?
These are the goddamn questions and men seek answers!
Oh yeah, the blog. Um.... I think there was a personal ad somewhere up there. I forget what it was about.
Where am I?
(Editors Note: Bwalhhweahhla gufdsibbe waleha)
Friday, August 1, 2008
Ladies only! I am a straight guy in every way except I have a little lingerie fetish. I need to know from the girls here if you think these photos are hot or not? No or yes to showing my cock in the photos? Too short? Too fat? Leave the lingerie to the girls? I want your opinion. If you live in Phoenix, send me an email at tomd@XXXXXXX.XXX.
If a male snail trail gracefully teasing its way into a pair of Costco Seniors super-absorbent lingerie doesn't motivate your ovaries to spray eggs like a hen getting crushed by a steamroller, then I'm afraid Tom's fetish might be a little out of your league.
Webster's defines "fetish" as an object of fixation psychologically necessary for sexual gratification. While I can't determine whether Tom's fetish involves the silky love cape draping from his shoulders, or the delicate hosiery he hath stuffed like so many turkey-based sausage casings, I can determine that if any of us were to list our own fetishes, few of us would list "Tom".
I personally don't have a problem with fetishes, but dropping your swim team directly into the pungent stronghold of musty afterthoughts created by Grandma's most recent romance novel session just seems a little obscure to me.
But then again, that's coming from a guy who likes to have a baboon in a magenta leotard ride a unicycle around the bedroom playing instrumental versions of Journey hits on a military bugle. My girlfriend doesn't mind, but the baboon seems confused, and sometimes throws his feces at my strobe lights.
Tom, men are turned on by women in lingerie because men find themselves sexually stimulated via visual cues. Women on the other hand do not rely on visual cues for arousal, but often find themselves more sexually stimulated by what's going on in your mind. Which unfortunately, in your case, is whether or not women feel you should free your anteater snout from the oxygen-starved confines of a sumo-wrestlers work pouch.
You can put lingerie on a man, and you can put a cute little summer hat on a donkey. Both might spice things up for a moment, but in the end, you still just have an ass that no women will want to ride.