Golden Grenades

Golden Grenades:

Definition: "Piss-filled water bottles you find on the sidewalks of shitty neighborhoods."

Golden grenades are ubiquitous in Vegas, where I currently reside.

Ego.

Following your virginity, it should be the second thing to go. In the bulging 501s of the male swinger, there's no room for ego. Save the solipsism for singles bars.

If you're goin' solo in this lifestyle, ego will shut you down faster than rats do restaurants.

A humble attitude, however, is that front loader gougin' the road to success.

Take, for example, Hombre Grande:

I made this big talker's acquaintance at a swing club that was nothing more than a giant bed, a hot tub, and some flat screens, showcasing porn. As a result, you'd correctly conclude 99% of the visitors to this venue attended nude.

Such stated, HG never disrobed. A Jacuzzi filled with bare tit, and this guy's clad in gabardine, unable to partake in the adventure happening beneath the water mere feet away.

Women asking to gaze upon Hombre Grande's marvel of manhood were denied, as he claimed he didn't want other men feeling inadequate.

Hence, for the first year I knew this dude, he looked like he was attending a board meeting. When folks would retire to adjoining rooms for fun, he'd grab an occasional breast, but always remain clothed.

It wasn't until one particular evening that I realized Grande was a walking, talking false advertisement. Enjoying myself on the bed with a lass, I turned to see HG — in all his glory — futilely advancing on a woman uninterested in his diminutive cocktail weenie.

Ego is a 10 foot penis: Initially impressive, it won't get you laid; and in the end, you'll trip over it every time.

What follows are tips I employed to abolish any sense of ego ever I had. Keep in mind, I stand as tall as a fourth grader. At best, I'm almost average looking.

Thus, ego was never an attribute of mine.

Confidence, however, was and shall always be.

BURNT TOAST

Every morning, burn your toast to a fucking crisp, and continue to eat it.

"What the hell does this have to do with getting laid?!" you holler.

If you're comfortable with what this system brainwashes us to believe is "acceptable," how can you appreciate all life has to offer?

If you don't at least consider everything out there, won't you be missing worlds of experience?

Doesn't this obstinate attitude race you headlong down a path of regret?

"I wish I'd had that vertebrae removed, so I could suck my own cock, but now I'm too old."

"Before getting locked into this high-paying 'career,' I should've traveled to some remote atoll, and fucked as many indigenous women as possible?"

"After getting married in high school, it wasn't until my 70th birthday I realized I'd only slept with one woman my entire life. Hence, I castrated myself with a nail file, and donated my nuts to Jeff Bezos, assisting in his quest to 'own' everything."

Enjoy the thorns as much as the rose. There are adventures out there you'd revel in if:

A) you only knew they existed, and

B) you gave them a chance.

Drink warm cola; chug cold coffee. Drive a shitty car; take the bus; walk. Throw a wig on your best friend, and fuck him up the ass. Burn your toast. Eat it.

"When did you first realize your cock was abnormally large?" the BBW queried, while slurping my staff atop the aseptic nursing home mattress.

"You mean, besides right now, when you just mentioned it?" I silently speculated.

A pause.

"Tuesday?" I responded.

Unfazed, the woman repeatedly stabbed her throat with my trouser tumescence.

Amused — as I always am, at this point in the process — I observed, before resting my head atop one of "Mickey" Lindell's My Pillows. Gazing at the ceiling, I uttered the obligatory, "Fuck, that feels incredible!" nanoseconds prior to my thoughts meandering.

"How did I end up in a rather cozy bed, of some corporate nursing home, with this strange senorita suckin' my dick?" I wondered. "How is it I'd be fucking this woman — 18 minutes, and 32 seconds subsequent — on the same mattress?"

This scenario wasn't "normal." I mean, it was normal for me, but decisively abnormal, in the context of this system.

A little backstory: Government stole my mom's million dollar house, while I was residing in it.

Mamasita and I became homeless.

Meager, when it comes to money, but considerable, in terms of corazon, I found ma' accommodations in an elderly care facility.

Myself? I no longer had a residence. As such, I slept on the davenport in mom's studio crampartment.

Thanks to the Internet, I'd arranged a meeting with a big, beautiful woman. Having no place to fuck her — save for ma's bachelorette pad — I brought the larger lass there.

Mom was at the hospital for a few days, so the timing coincided.

I know. Sounds pathetic. That's because it was.

If I'd been a fucktard, however — like so many out there — I would've envisioned myself "too good" for the BBW in question. I was thin, and she wasn't. Hence, I wouldn't have had the pleasure of watching her gag on my raging rod.

If I'd listened to an insane society — brainwashing me I was "permissible," and this woman was not — she wouldn't have faked a baker's dozen on my cock. Stumbling home in a state of euphoria, her crusted cum flaking off thick thighs, as she waited at a bus stop more pissed on than 10,000 urinal cakes, would've only been a fantasy.

Look, people still vote. Hell, you're probably one of 'em.

Folks continue paying obvious extortion fees — euphemised as "taxes" — to the blatant criminals they place in office. Like you'll ever see the president in line for food stamps. Yet, we're his boss, and he's our humble servant?!

You may wanna do yourself a monumental favor, and stop believing in what a visibly fucked-up society tells you to, and start believing in yourself. If I hadn't, I would've envisioned myself as no more than some desperate timeshare salesman, or a groveling real estate broker.

Thus, I would've ended up slashing my wrists, buried beneath a 459 year mortgage, a wife who hated me, and 2.2 kids riddled with autism, cancer, and blatant ignorance.

Instead, I rode the first turd outta of this shithole, where I fucked more women than menopause, unexpected periods, and yeast infections.

THE BED: AS USELESS AS TONSILS

Spent 400,000 fucking dollars on a Grand Vividus bed? Would you rather sleep, as opposed to getting laid?

If all you're gonna use it for is napping, a mattress is more worthless than sending Elon Musk spending cash for the holidays. Reach the point at which you slumber just as well on the floor, as you do atop your overpriced box spring.

Some claim such discipline forces a person to lower one's standards. I find the term "standards" demeaning.

Here's the deal: Although each of us is unique, no one of us is better than another.

We're all trapped on this microscopic, blue speck — we call Earth — in a massive, cosmic sea. To view one person as more important than the rest is insane.

Alone, we can't protect ourselves against the forces of this Universe. We need one another, in order to perpetuate our kind.

Hence, show everybody respect.

Once you take this path, you'll see beauty in everyone. This expands your mind, which broadens your scope. As such, you'll find more people attractive. After all, the more types of women you dig, the more sex you'll obtain. Period.

Not into larger ladies? Try one, or 100. You'll be amazed at the opportunities it creates.

I had a friend who refused to have sex with non-Caucasian women weighing more than 130 pounds. As a result, he'd slept with three senoritas, prior to getting married. Talk about settin' yourself up for a brown blizzard of bitterness.

This is the kind of person who solely eats white bread, cries when celebrities divorce, and never experiences anything. With this type of outlook, what sort of personal stories will you be able to impart?

"When I was your age, I stayed up close to 11 once, watching reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. As a result, I realized not everybody loves that fucker. In fact, most people don't even like him...Those were the days!"

Futilely spinning the steering wheel, I skid across black ice, as I slide into three empty parking spaces.

Since my jalopy is older than Angela Lansbury's tits, I only have liability. If your mobile menace Blue Books for less than a G Note, why pay to protect against damage to your vehicle?

Fortunately, the parking lot is vacant. Nothin' like unwittingly playin' demolition derby, and watching one's premiums skyrocket.

Shielding my eyes from what seems an inevitable crash, I'm pleasantly surprised by the silence of snow falling in darkness, as my rust bucket comes to rest.

Glancing about, my ghetto sled plumes exhaust into the frosty evening air.

I've arrived.

Rechecking the address — meticulously incised into a spiral notebook — I verify I have the correct building, before entering the icebox outside.

Stuffing condoms into my socks, I swill healthy gulps of generic mouthwash. Opening the door, I spit the results on the ground — which steam, as they hit the pavement.

Snatching a backpack containing homemade cock rings, granola bars, and water, I prepare to brave the frozen tundra.

For whatever reason, I suddenly ponder the fate of the bolero. Similar to a shit you'd take in Niagara River — that flows over Niagara Falls — my thoughts often drift.

Hence, boleros — credulous plebes used to traffic drugs. Typically, these destitute folk reside in Third World hovels, where they owe money to local gangs. In order to pay their debts, boleros swallow condoms filled with cocaine, and cross borders from one country to another.

Once these desperate proles reach their intended destination, they make "the drop" — shitting out the drugs in question. Should the bolero be constipated, the recipients of these narcotics simply slice the poor bastard open, removing the bandito blanco, along with the transporter's intestines.

Boleros often have no idea what they're ingesting, unaware they'd suffer a massive overdose, should these Jimmy Hats burst open in their guts.

My ruminations — although having nothing to do with anything — are as common as farting.

Snapping from my reverie, I cut the engine faster than ties to an abusive spouse, step from the vehicle, and race across frozen ground.

Following the inevitable sprint from one door to the next, I finally find apartment 217 B, and knock.

At this point, I think about the cold beans from a can I ate earlier, while sitting alone in my empty duplex, surrounded by wine boxes filled with books I've penned.

I watch the knob turn left, right, then left again, before Courtney — a gorgeous plumper, with pink hair — opens the door, clad in nothing but fuzzy, green socks.

"Hugh!" the bouncing ball of bliss envelopes my frail frame with open arms.

Returning the gesture, I stuff a couple fingers up her cunt.

The bubbly beauty's elation transforms into effort, as she grinds against me, focused solely on her own orgasms. The planet could catch flame, and she'd pay it no mind.

This is what I crave. In the doorway, I drain a moderate amount of jizz from her pussy. Should her neighbors be gaping through the peephole, they receive an offering not available on NetFlix.

Backing Courtney into the murky apartment, I close the door behind me, aware the main course awaits somewhere deeper in this hazmat hellhole that reeks of puke.

Inside, the only ambient lighting is the blue glow emanating from a TV.

Her breath stinking of latent vomit, I stuff my tongue down the chubette's throat. She's obviously gone 10 rounds with her liver, having purged at least once.

Because I'm a sick fuck, my horse cock threatens to tear through the front of my sweatpants, as we stumble further into the entrails of perdition.

Against the hardwood floor, I slip in something buttery and crunchy, before regaining my balance.

"Is Heather here?" I query, breathing profoundly.

Before my friend can answer, we breach an archway to the left, exposing the entertainment room of the dwelling.

Atop a blow-up mattress, a Rubenesque Latina reclines nude, fingers up her hole, a bottle of cupcake-flavored vodka pressed against her lips.

From a CD player draining squirt, what sounds like the late Stephen Hawking sucking sweaty scrotum loops continuously.

Pulling her tongue from my throat, Courtney motions to her friend — also a plumper. "Hugh, this isss H— Hhheather."

Formalities mauled by a bulldozer, I motion to this second sylph's slit, "Would you like a hand with that?"

Nodding, the sloshed señorita sucks from her bottle, the way an infant would a nipple.

Spitting on my thumb, I reach down, and massage her clam hat, as she continues excavating.

From a TV on its side, Gordon Ramsay microwaves his cock, in a furious attempt to prove he can make anything taste better than what some traumatized chef is serving.

Adjacent Heather, a bloody dildo rests atop the mattress.

Beyond a bay window in the background, snow falls, creating the idyllic holiday setting.

Slapping a hand over her mouth, Courtney races to the bathroom, her cheeks expanding like a blowfish. Amid the darkened confines of the lavatory, she regurgitates.

From some undisclosed source, Perry Como croons It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Crotch Rot, his asshole closing tightly around corporate cock.

Stripping off my shirt, and abandoning my pants, I revel in the romance, as I dangle my dick in front of Heather's face.

Dropping the bottle to the mattress, the salacious señora sucks more than the thought of four more years with a president — any president.

Bending, I manhandle her massive tits — the areolae of which are roughly the size, and coloration, of pumpernickel bagels.

Sliding her to the periphery of the box spring, I begin feasting on the scrambled eggs between her legs, as Courtney heaves in the bathroom behind me.

It was a Christmas card come to life.

Affixing a penis parka, I stand, and penetrate.

"Fuck!" Heather breaths, wincing, as she tenses.

The 750 ml bottle steadily draining beside her head, the room begins to stink of sickly-sweet fermentation, as the sugary hooch spills forth.

White knucklin' the edge of the bed, the woman blasts out a load that makes the steaming pile government serves up every September 11th, seem trivial. Hunks of what appear to be cubed ham escape her throat, as she sloppily swipes a palm over her maw, rolls off the mattress, and crawls to the bathroom.

Just in time, Courtney returns — ramen embedded in her hair — as she drags herself atop the bed. "Fug me," she rolls on her back, as I change condoms, and Heather now barfs in the shadows behind me.

Andy Williams takes it up the ass from the corporatocracy, as he informs us It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

Adding sausage to my friend's tuna pot pie, I replay a scenario similar to that which probably caused the stereo to be covered in groin goo.

Discovering the used bottle of flavored vodka to her right, Courtney refuels, as I drop to my knees, and voraciously devour pelvic burrito.

On the tube, Gordon Ramsay mauls some actor in a chef's hat with a beef log, while Anthony Sullivan learns firsthand what Rupert Murdoch's cock tastes like.

One more blast, and my pal's liver is again at full capacity, as she bowls off the bed, and back into the bathroom.

As though they'd timed it, Heather returns. Covered in mascara — to the point she looks like she spent the day at Midas, learning how to perform oil changes — she climbs on the bed for Round Two.

We go at it.

And so the evening continues, until both women suffer cirrhosis, passing out somewhere between the toilet and Hades.

Either way, they get off, and I leave this system in the dust for a couple hours.

This system that informs me it's necessary to celebrate the birth of a provably fake god, by pretending to believe in a fat guy, flown around in a sled by eight flightless animals.

This system that attempts to indoctrinate me bigger girls — like Courtney and Heather — are "undesirable," and no fun.

This system that renders people homeless, forcing them to piss in bottles on the streets, thereby creating Golden Grenades, like the one I pass moments before writing this article.

Upon oozing from my friend's disheveled digs, and disappearing into the night, I praise myself for telling this system to, "Fuck off!" I exalt myself for recommending others do the same. I thank myself for facing reality, and attempting to find out who I am.

— authored by Hugh Mungus