I drove to the church first, secretly hoping they would deny my application right away. If they offered me the position I would be obligated to accept it and I would be scrubbing the holy shitter within the week. There was no one in sight when I walked in, so I just wandered around until I found the back office. A fat priest sat at the desk with a judgmental look on his face, his judgmental eyes peering over his judgmental bifocals until I cleared my throat and got his attention. He started explaining right away that they had no soup services until friday afternoon until I interrupted him and explained about the janitor job.

It didn't go well. He commented that he hadn't seen me before, which I understood was a bad thing since this was a supposedly "holy" place, and he could tell just by looking at me that I was one hell of a sinner. When he asked me which church I attended I stood up and told him to fuck off. I had enough of their guilt-laden bullshit as a child and I wasn't going to put up with it every fucking day just to pull a minimum-wage check. He seemed startled, which surprised me. I was sure assholes like him were told to fuck off pretty often.


On the way back to the car I looked in my wallet to see I had three bucks and some change to my name. And I still needed gas. This convinced me not to go home right away and try the elementary school about that job. After all, I probably only had a few mouthfulls of pissy vodka back home anyway.


Walking up to the front offices I was getting winded by the goddamn stairs. I already had my doubts about working at this place even before walking through the door. I approached the desk where a secretary sat behind a desk sorting some papers. The look on her face made it clear that she didn't think I belonged here. "How can I help you?" she asked. Not even a 'sir'.


"I'm here about the custodial position." I explained, trying hard to sound and look presentable. "I applied yesterday." "Oh, yes. Well, I haven't gotten around to reviewing all the applications yet. We got so many of them... the economy, you know?" she said through smiling teeth. "I could probably get you an interview, but maybe you want to come back a little later?" She was still sitting down so I was fighting the urge to stare down her blouse, even though they weren't that spectacular from the looks of things. "Why the fu... I mean, hell would I want to come back?" The moment I said it I realized it came out aggressive. "To freshen up. Frankly sir, you smell like alcohol."


I just walked out of there laughing to myself. She said ahe wanted my name to give me a call when they were ready to interview, but I knew she just wanted to pull my app and trash it. I drove home thirsty for whatever swill I could dig out of the discarded bottles in my apartment. When I opened the door I was depressed. Vanessa was gone, but she had cleaned my place like a fucking madwoman. I bet she didn't leave a single near-empty bottle in the garbage for me to salvage. Then I saw it. A fresh bottle of single malt sitting on the counter with a short note.


"I left a couple dollars in your end table drawer and there is some food in the fridge. You didn't have anything! Give me a call if you ever want to see me again- Vanessa"


There was $60 in the end table. I put the music on and laid into the bottle with a big smile on my face.

You all saw it last night. A 66 year old former president took the stage in Charlotte North Carolina and tried to fuck our girlfriends. Sure, he made some speech about Obama or something, but we know what he was really up to. In between succinct statements that clearly demonstrated the absurdity of the republican campaign platform he was charming the drawers off your woman. Just remember what he is capable of. Back when he was president he did things with a cigar that most of us haven't yet accomplished with our penises, for god's sake!

At first I was like "Wow. He is expertly staking a democratic claim on America's future while simultaneously striking a familiar and pleasant chord with the undecided electorate..." But the it hit me. He is practically raping my girlfriend with his words. And my suspicions were confirmed when I caught her washing the couch cushions later that night, frantically hiding the evidence of her womanly juices.

Goddammit, how am I supposed to compete with this? In a mere 48 minutes he was able to undo all the work I put into my girlfriend over the course of seven long months, from paid dinners, romantic walks, and even three fucking twilight movies! And don't think this isn't your problem too, mister. Do you know where your girl is right now? Didn't think so. I know mine was supposed to come over after work today and that was four hours ago! She is almost certainly on the receiving end of an "Arkansas water slide" by now, and there is nothing I can do about it.

From what I understand, Bill Clinton has been sequestered in a dark room with only a bible and basic cable television for the last decade, allowed to leave only when representing his charity on the occasional world tour. And is it any coincidence that teenage pregnancy has been on a sharp decline since then? I think not. They don't call him "Panty-Dropping Presidente" for nothing.

Even the most discerning gentleman will find himself confronted with danger, panic, and chaos in his lifetime. How one responds demonstrates the difference between common street trash and people of privilege. Tonight we briefly discuss the proper handling of situations of potentially dire consequence.

1. Remember your elevated station in life when considering chivalry:

You may be tempted to follow the age old adage of "women and children first", but consider the genesis of this famous line. This was mostly used in sinking ship scenarios between the mid 19th to mid 20th century, where all occupants were generally of aristocratic heritage and warranted equivalent treatment in times of peril. These days you are much less likely to find a fellow gentleman or social peer and therefore should not hesitate to flatten any obstructive personage, be they man, woman, or child. To think that you would allow some unwashed urchin to prevent you from sparing your fine garments exposure to elements such as fire or flood waters is simply foolish, and acting with authority will put you in line with like-minded people of wealth and status.

2. Hoarding resources is the way of the aristocracy:

At the first sign of a stressful situation a true gentleman will claim for himself a proportional quantity of valuable resources. If unable to secure the lion's share of food or other resources you face an obligation to demand or seize said valuables from other survivors. Expect resistance, as the rabble tends to place undue value on their own meager existence and will likely demand access to whatever they have acquired for themselves. Do not hesitate to enlist force to secure your rightful claim.

3. Cull the herd to eliminate the weak:

The sooner you can isolate the unfit from your group the better. When faced with a life or death ordeal the last thing you will need is to be saddlebagged with the impoverished or feeble. At the first opportunity you must smother the weak and sacrifice their young, as this is the way of nature. Maintaining a population of lesser individuals may be entertaining but is generally a drain on your resources, and once they have been eradicated the remaining few can benefit from their belongings. Don't let your inner humanity be a detriment to your survival. Many a good man lost their struggle due to their unwillingness to fashion a blanket out of the skin of starving toddlers.

4. Establish your dominance:

There are many benefits to leading a group of survivors, and key among them is being seen as essential to the success of the greater good. Being of respectable blood you already have above-average judgement and intellect, and once others have identified such you will have an easier time convincing them to sacrifice themselves in your stead. After all, while the peasants fight for king and country the king fights for no one but himself. Consider the endgame of a heated match of chess. The pawns are the first to go in the interests of the good of the king.

5. Remember that history is written by the winners:

No matter what manner of cowardice and selfishness is committed in the throes of stress, none of it is of any consequence once the ordeal is over. And as long as you are fit to loudly proclaim your heroic deeds the greater public will be none the wiser. To be sure, other survivors may be keen to proclaim your dishonor once the smoke has cleared, but as long as you have a louder bullhorn their cries will be drowned out. And besides, what right-minded person would believe a louse from lower social station than yourself in such a situation? Indeed, just make sure you are first to secure parlay with the covering media.

You know those people that just hate gay people?  I mean HAAAAATE them?  They froth at the mouth when they spit the word "Faggot", there is such vitriol behind it.  But you know, in many circumstances, those same people turn out to be closeted, self hating homosexuals.  They only way they know how to deal with their sexuality colliding with their upbringing is to overcompensate.  The next time you see one of those bible thumpers holding a "God Hates Fags" sign.  Just think of him with a cock in his mouth.  It will all make sense.

That brings us to Hank Williams, Jr..  He is an outspoken country star who tends to voice his disgust with those who are different than him.  You think he may be overcompensating a bit?..... Hmmmmmmm?  In an incredibly childish manner, I have altered the lyrics to "All My Rowdy Friends Are Coming Over Tonight.".

I got semen on my blue jeans, someones cock in my hand,

Lord, it’s hard to be a secret gay man.

I got girls that can cook, I got girls that can clean,

But I'm no fan of girls, if you know what I mean,

I gotta get shaved, get my pubes cropped right,

‘cause all my secret gay friends are comin' over tonight.

Do you wanna drink, hey, do ya wanna get naughty,

Hey, Billy, this is ole Hank ready to get your thing started.

A clean tarp and lube on the ground, we got some beer on ice,

And all my furry bear friends are coming over tonight.

Now my party pad is out in the woods,

The ladies won't spot us and that is good,

'Cause I got some dirty drag queens spread out on the floor,

And a bunch of hairless twinks just walked through the door.

Got a little whirlpool just made for ten,

So take off your speedo, it's full of just men.

You can do anything that you wanna do,

But uh uh, don't you cum on my cowboy boots.

Do you wanna drink, hey, do ya wanna get naughty,

Hey, this is Sloppy Bottom Hank ready to get sloppy.

I'm like a pig on the ground, and it feels so nice

And all my Leather Daddy friends are coming over tonight.

Do you wanna drink, hey, do ya wanna party,

Hey, Hey, this is Candy' Ass Hank ready to get this gay orgy... started,

I'm all fours on the ground, my ass will need some ice,

Cause all my huge black friends are coming over tonight.

Hank "The Spank" Williams, Jr.

I woke up with an unfamiliar and pleasant scent in the air. There was a woman beside me and for once she didn't stink of stale sex from a night of fornicating. I reached down and grabbed my cock, it's lack of soreness confirming last night's chastity, then quietly scrambled out of bed to take a seemingly endless piss in the bathroom where I noticed she had done some essential decontamination last night while I slept. There was even a fresh roll of toilet paper hanging next to the shitter instead of being perched atop the sink counter, something that I hadn't seen in at least a few years. I made the uncharacteristic effort of washing my hands before returning, hoping the sound of running water would disguise my otherwise absolute filthiness.

When I returned to the bedroom she had already gotten up and was making coffee, nude, in the kitchen. From behind I could see the whisps of dark hair from below the base of her ample ass protruding slightly and I became aware of a morning erection.


"You don't have to do that, love" I told her, but she said she was happy to take care of me, and after all, I probably needed some coffee after last night's drinking. I turned on the radio and was happy to hear of some tragic shooting on the east coast. Dozens injured, at least three dead. She brought me a cup and sat at the table where she pulled another cigarette out of her purse and watched me drink it. She had her legs crossed high up as if to preserve some modesty despite her nakedness, and it was giving me fits. I drank the last of my coffee and walked over to her, snuffed her cigarette out on the table and dragged her into the bedroom.


We fucked for the better part of an hour, and she was making quiet whimpering noises that made me think she was either really enjoying herself or I was raping her. Either way it was great. I finished off, wiped my dick on the sheets, and lazily rolled onto my stomach while she ran her fingers over my back. She noticed the scars there and commented that they looked like I was an angel that lost my wings. "If I had wings they wouldn't be the kind that had feathers, babe" I replied, and avoided telling her the depressing truth that they were belt buckle wounds from a childhood event involving a broken window and a drunken father. There was a kindness in her that was foreign to me and it would be terribly irresponsible for me to poison it with my cynicism. I sat there while she petted me like some beaten dog until I abruptly sat up and got dressed. I told her I had to see about a job I applied for yesterday, which was partly true, but mostly I was trying to escape for some ridiculous reason that I couldn't identify. It was only after I started my car that I realized that I might never see her again.

Ann was thinking of him. It was the night of the big convention speech and Mitt had just delivered a rousing performance to crowd of cheering sycophants. The thought of his body beneath his ever-present tailored suit was all the sweeter after hearing the ease with which he let the lies roll over his tongue, a tongue she would put to good use later. Mitt was out celebrating with his closest associates and subordinates and he would be home soon, drunk on caviar and too much honey-spiked milk. But tonight was no normal evening that would end in their typical routine of sitting across from each other at the table reading the book of mormon, for tonight Ann was giving a forbidden gift. They would make love in a hotel suite for the first time in their long marriage.

Many thought their union was one of passionless luxury where lovemaking was reserved only for the practice of creating life, but they knew not the depths of their lust. Ann was long past her childbearing years and things had only gotten better... They had embraced as man and woman literally several times in the last few decades. But things had to be perfect to set the mood in this unfamiliar place. Mitt was never able to perform away from the security of one of his 11 mansion bedrooms, and the mere presence of light caused his frail member to retreat back to it's home deep within his graying loins. But Ann was going to combat his sexual shame with her most powerful weapon for the first time in years. She would display her fully nude form to him.

The thought of the coming union had her in stitches as she noticed she was slightly less dry than the hours before, an encouraging sign for things to come. To grab his attention and direct him toward their eventual congress Ann left a trail of crisp 100 dollar bills from the suite foyer, through the den and viewing room, past the double showers and hot tubs, down both hallways, then finally to master bedroom where she stripped to sheer nothingness and laid across the silk sheets in the candlelight. He would be back soon.

The faint sound of the keycard lock beeping betrayed Mitt's presence to her. The soles of his italian leather shoes tapped lightly across the marble tile floors as he navigated his way to his prize, stopping every few moments to stoop down and snatch up the discarded bills. Then the doorknob turned and the hallway light shot through the room.

"Dear, you must be more careful with your pocket change. Do you have any idea how many poor people I had to fire to make that?" Mitt stated absent-mindedly as he obliviously marched past the bed, removing his $3,000 jacket and placing it neatly in the closet with all the others. It was then that he turned and saw her.

"Good gracious, Ann! Have you forgotten yourself? You're laying in our bed... indecent as the day you were born!" He shouted as he averted his eyes, clearly startled and embarrassed.

"Tonight's the night, Willard." She said softly. "Now let's make the maid staff earn their meager wages tomorrow!"

Mitt finally looked up, lust in his eyes. He could hardly believe his luck. Tonight he was introduced to america by dirty harry, and now this? He hastily removed his fine garments, taking careful effort to fold them neatly at the foot of the bed before crawling up to meet her. He took a few minutes of silent time kneeling over her, but not nearly as long as normal. Ann knew better than to look up. She knew he was busy trying to make it work, and her gaze would only make him nervous and frightened. The act would commence in patient time if she waited silently.

The warmth of his pasty flesh was all around her, and the soft, rhythmic grunting noises were her only cue that Mitt was in progress. The sweet smell of honey milk was breathing onto the canvass of the bed, making her yearn to taste it second-hand. He was an animal, unlike the mild-mannered man she married so many years ago. At one point Ann thought he might be trying to pull her hair, but it turned out his had was just awkwardly propped on the softness of the mattress.

Then the sturdy effort ceased as dramatically as it had started. Mitt leaned back and wiped his forehead only to find it yielded no sweat, then whispered his apologies and retreated to the master bath. Ann redressed herself in her jammies and climbed back into bed to the sounds of muffled sobbing through the bathroom door.

It was even better than she could have wished in her wildest dreams.

I dreamed of an ugly woman that I was inexplicably in love with that helped me solve the murder of an unrepentant rapist, and woke up with false pride. It's amazing how little you can get done when you have no deadlines. I barely managed to get myself out of bed long enough to get to the liquor store let alone get another job. I thought I had it made until I called my former employer and realized they intended to challenge my unemployment claim. After ten years I thought they could offer me at least the courtesy of collecting a little free money.

Luckily under the laws of my state I was entitled to my final paycheck on my last day and was able to buy 30 days of leeway with my landlord before spending the rest. Predictably I wasted most of it on drink, spending the brief hours between intoxication shivering from nausea and reeling from the headaches. I kept my hands buried in the pockets of my jeans convinced that my fingernails would fall off and rattle like loose change. It was heaven.


But I knew that if I wanted to keep up this glorious lifestyle and avoid sticking my pistol in the face of some poor store clerk I was going to have to find a new job. I prepared to venture out into the job market the only way I knew how, with a coffee cup full of whiskey and a breakfast of dry toast and dill pickles. I checked every liquor store in the area for openings, but the ones that recognized me knew I couldn't be trusted with the stock, and the ones that didn't recognize me thought they did and guessed likewise. I downgraded my employment ambitions to basic labor, and filled out two applications for janitor positions, one at an elementary school and another at a church. Both were places I had no business anywhere near.


My brain was still swimming in the morning's booze and I wasted no time in drowning it again. I was sitting at an unfamiliar bar stool deciding if I wanted a ham sandwich or another drink when she sat down next to me. Her name was Vanessa and she was all smiles, leading me to the conclusion she was probably a prostitute. She wasn't ugly enough to be the type to approach me, but it didn't add up. A whore would notice that I was ordering only well whiskey, a sign of vagrant, and I certainly looked the part, and she even took it upon herself to pick up my tab. We drank together, I ate a sandwich that I sorely needed and she chain-smoked cigarettes. She had kids but made it clear they didn't live with her for some unspoken reason, and stared me down with her giant brown eyes while we chatted. When she got up to take a piss I watched her ass shake pleasantly and I wanted to bury my face in it. The bartender must have heard the thought go through my mind judging by his soft laughter as he shook his head. He was either jealous or he knew her all to well. Regardless I knew it was time to take her home.


At my apartment she wasted no time in tidying up the coffee table like she owned the place. I let her play house while I put some music on and drank on the couch. She was taking care of me. I wondered if she knew just how bad it was with me, or if she even cared, and decided that she was mothering me to make up for some maternal failure years ago as I slipped off to sleep. Unlike the other women I brought home I didn't want her to leave, and figured I had nothing of value to protect from her. Besides, if she wanted what little I had I might be willing to simply give it to her.

The first ingredient is tears.  Lots of tears.  Human tears expressed at the height of sorrow will comprise the majority of this soup.  Now here is the problem.  How to get them.  If you are making Sad soup you are obviously not sad.  How could you be?  Sad Soup is delicious to eat and exhilarating to prepare.  It is impossible and possibly illegal to frown while making Sad Soup.

Now then, There are many ways to get fresh human tears.  One of the easiest ways is to observe funerals.  Keep your eye out for inexpensive funerals with young crying widows.  Because the funeral is cheap, it probably means the widow is having financial trouble and could barely afford the funeral in the first place.  Bills are probably piling up and she would be much more apt to take your hard earned money in exchange for her constant grieving tears than a widow with a large inheritance.  Just keep offering her money to collect her tears and remind her about her husband any chance you get.

If trolling funerals isn't your bag, why not try Ebay?  I have purchased tears many times on Ebay, always from verified sources.  There are Sad Soup aficionados across the globe.  We are quite a friendly and welcoming community.  There is always Sad Souper with ingredients to sell buried within the tastiest depths of Ebay.  You just have to look.

Can't afford to pay a widow or Ebay?  Well, this is always a last resort for me.... There is always.... Kidnapping.  You won't believe how much a person cries when they've been kidnapped.  Nonstop.  I'm a big fan of the night vision goggles and dark room approach.  With your abductee comfortably tied to a chair, you can really get the waterworks flowing with the sound of a chainsaw.  I am also a big fan of sharpening knives and laughing.  Continue collecting the tears until you get enough for your recipe. Be sure to keep your tear supplier well hydrated!  Once you have enough tears, release your abductee unharmed far from your home and worry not.  Your abductee will have a great story to tell at parties for the rest of their lives.

The problem with kidnap tears, while easy and cheap to procure, is that they are mostly "Terror Tears", which is not exactly the same thing as "Sorrow Tears".  While they both taste very similar, a true gourmet would easily be able to tell the difference.

After procuring the precious tears you can finally make the soup!  Everybody has their own recipe.  I heat my tears to near boiling on the stove.  Do not boil, it will evaporate the sorrow.  Once an acceptable temperature is reached I garnish with a parsley sprig and serve.  Mmmm, lightly salty.....  During the holidays, I add a little clove instead of parsley, so festive.  Experiment away and come up with your own tasty recipe.  ~Enjoy

I don't generally like to brag, but I'm pretty much the cassanova of date rapists. That's right, I can basically bag any girl I want at any given time. If you put me in the same room with twenty beautiful women I will end up taking home the hottest one, guaranteed! But I don't really get the kind of credit and recognition that I think I deserve, just because I use unconventional methods. Instead of relying on charm, good looks, and charisma, I go with a meticulously-selected mixture of farm-grade livestock tranquilizers and an arsenal of psychological attacks designed to instill a sense of personal guilt while simultaneously fostering overwhelming sympathy for their attacker akin to stockholm syndrome.

The night usually starts with me approaching my victim sheepishly, plying her with compliments and free booze until she sees me as just a pathetic and lonely guy and lets her guard down. I clean up just well enough so that she doesn't feel ashamed to be seen speaking to me, but not so well that I seem overtly sexual. It is really a difficult balance, and a remarkably complex skill to master. Most guys would just walk up to her and "be honest", or "seem confident", but to my experienced eyes these dudes are just amateurs. To get a sure thing you have to MAKE it happen.

So I wait until she orders a round of drinks, something cheap that she feels obligated to buy me for being such a nice guy and picking up the tab for the last hour, then I spike it. Girls are way less protective of a drink when they ordered it themselves, as if it was the bartender they had to worry about. Ha! As soon as the drugs take hold I ask the bartender to call her a cab, you know, because I'm such a nice guy and all, and when he shows up I slip in the car and we're off for some non-consensual fun!

The trick is to keep the lights down and wait for her to get sick. When the carousel is spinning she has a hard time getting off the ride, if you know what I mean! Sure, sometimes that means it gets a little messy, but that's all part of the fun. If you wanted to have her at her best you would have to put WAY more effort in, building a foundation of trust and mutual respect, and so on, and so on... and a guy like me doesn't have that kind of time. So you make it quick, getting off before she has a chance to fully articulate herself and make a memory of a struggle stick through the drugs. It won't last long, but you will have the video to last a lifetime!

And if she has a strong constitution that gets her through the whole ordeal fully conscious, just make sure you're the one doing the majority of the crying afterward. Chances are she will pity you long enough to establish plausible deniability in the mind of a jury. And remember, if she doesn't make it to the hospital within 8 hours then you are pretty much home-free as far as the rape kit is concerned.

And there you have it, my friends. The trade secrets of one of the most experienced players in the rape game. I'm not sure why I'm giving up my methods to everyone who reads this, but I guess it's because not everyone can pull it off. Just because you see Tiger Wood's swing doesn't mean you can win the masters four fucking times, am I right?

When I got home I finished the job I started at the adult book store, drowning out the world with a too-loud playing of Otis Redding's Tramp. I was hoping someone on the floor would pound on the wall and complain, but no such luck. I washed my hands and headed out to the bar.

I was two beers and three whiskeys in before I got the mojo going and started harassing the women. Two walked away before I found one with low enough self esteem to talk to me. I played the gentleman and complimented her. When she pretended to be modest and said she wished she had a chance to clean up after work before going out I leaned in and audibly sniffed her and said, "I disagree. You don't smell dirty enough" When she smiled I knew I had her.


I pumped drinks into her until closing time and then tried to convince her to come to my place and fuck. She resisted hard enough to indicate she thought I was some kind of serial killer or something, but I eventually got her into my back seat. Her breath fogged up the glass until the bar owner banged on it and told us to beat it. Luckily I came inside her before she had a chance to scurry out the passenger door and run off to her car. She was a good lay but she had kind of shallow pussy. It was either only four inches deep or took a hard left that stopped me cold in mid-thrust. On the way home I got all sentimental and thought about marrying her and having kids and shit. I make myself sick sometimes.


I spent the better part of sunday examining my dick and convincing myself she gave me herpes. It was probably just friction burns, something I suffered from weekly but was too paranoid to realize on the fly. Despite my distress I slept well. Well enough to barely make it to work in the morning.


My manager was waiting for me when I came in. He always stood up straight when we spoke, trying desperately not to be five inches shorter than me, and he had terrible breath. His breath was bad enough to inspire self awareness, and besides, he had a wife! There's no way he doesn't know about it. When I have booze on my breath I at least have the decency to exhale through my nose, for christ's sake.


"I need to schedule you for some overtime" he said. "And don't give me any grief, okay? This is coming all the way from corporate, so it's mandatory." Only assholes used the word "grief" like it was a proper curse word. And he was certainly an asshole.


"You know what Wayne?" I said. He went by Scott but his real name was Wayne. "Go fuck yourself!" I looked him straight in the eye when I said it. With a look that forced him to acknowledge that I was more powerful than he was. And more angry. He threatened me with his only power, an HR meeting, before I walked past him and gathered the shit from my desk and walked out. And that was the end of that career.


I celebrated the loss of employment with eight 2oz shots of hard proof rum and a three hour nap on my carpet. When I awoke I couldn't have felt better about it.