Opinions 1

"Even if you are a minority of one, the truth is the truth."

― Mahatma Gandhi

"Opinions are like assholes, son; everybody's got one."

Marshall's attestation was more trite than: "Women: Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

"Correct," I responded, from a rust-riddled lawn chair, amid a rust-riddled swing club, "but truth is like a nine inch cock; only a few of us possess those."

Hubby's smirk vanished, as his wife ― who'd previously wanted less to do with me than foot fungus ― became interested in our conversation. Disrobing, I applied lube, and manually brought my staff up to speed on things.

Moments later, the lusty lass was standing above me, amid the 99¢ Store version of a sex shack. Licking her lips, she gazed upon my profligate penis with more longing than a freezing man does a fire.

"Would you like a hand with that?" the wanton woman outstretched her palm, motioning to what female friends refer to as the Nine Inch Nail.

"Are politicians criminals; doctors drug dealers; and soldiers hired killers?" I thought, placing one fist atop another on my shaft, exposing space for a third palm. "Well, look at that; a three-hander!" I directed my dong toward her, as the blushing bride massaged my member with more enthusiasm than the Pope does a little boy's ass.

"How'd you get such a huge cock?" she queried.

"Well, I ain't discoverin' what's on top of the fridge ― without the aid of a ladder ― so maybe somebody took pity on me, and decided to add extra inches elsewhere."

"I'll say!" the congenial cutie impaled her face on my sensual spear.

Turning to hubby ― who'd been an ostentatious ass ― I asserted, "If my pants were on, you'd think I was made of poop, and dunked in piss."

When you were perceptive enough, as a child, to ask: "If he lives in a mansion, has chauffeurs drive him around, and is more 'rich' than the rest of us, how come you call him a president, instead of a king?" you won't fit into this society.

You may not have realized it at the time, but you'd just veered violently off Familiar Freeway, and careened your crumblin' car down Reality Road. The latter is an ambiguous thoroughfare, but then again, aren't they all?

You might have millions in the bank, and still end up a cheese-drippin' Nick Cage flick — Gone In 60 Seconds — by sundown.

Outside of our eventual demises, nothing seems certain.

So, while you're breathin' O2, why not inhale as much truth as possible? Why exist within the lie the majority of the populace chooses to pretend is real?

Bear in mind, the modality I'm suggesting will make your journey a constant struggle, since you'll be opposing an entire species desperate to exist in an illusion.

Such stated, it's only when you see things for what they are that you'll doggedly pursue your goals, rather than the goals this system brainwashes you are important.

When you were six years old, did you daydream about being a creepy accident/injury lawyer? Nope. You wanted to have adventures.

Why should that change? It's only when we allow this Machiavellian transformation to occur, that we run the risk of breathing our final breaths in regret.

When you forfeited your desires, for the desires this system demands you pursue, how else did you think things were gonna turn out?

Hence, feel free to hop on the truth train, and see where it takes you.

In doing so, you'll have to rely on "other mediums" to retain sanity, amid this insane paradigm.

For Hugh Mungus, one of those means is his cock. Sporting severe scarcity in looks, HM could've easily remained celibate his entire existence, had he accepted the lies our prison wardens shank us with every day.

Instead, he grasped his little play toy, wandered over to the other sandbox ― which is far less-populated ― and embarked on an epic adventure. Three thousand nine-hundred and ninety-one women later, he continues his quest for what those believing their indoctrination would conclude unattainable: 5,000 females, or bust.

The title of this article? They just don't matter. Not yours, mine, nor anyone else's. The only thing that does matter is the truth ― since the truth is the only thing that is.

Your opinions will come and go, and so will mine. Throughout, the truth will remain, whether we like it or not.

Oddly enough, the one thing most folks refuse to deal in is ― you guessed it ― the truth. Instead, they'd rather believe a series of lies ― which comprise one big calumny.

People will follow orders from a schoolyard bully, who hides inside a white-walled mansion. This goon will demand you kill your own, simply because these fellow members of your species reside on the other side of some make-believe line.

Folks will continue giving their milk money to this hoodlum every April 15th, when he orders it. They'll support the only thing that allows said oppressor to retain power ― mountains of useless paper called cash, or even more absurd, numbers on a screen.

My work is a heartfelt, "Fuck you!" to those who'd have us conclude we're lost without them. Again, if I didn't believe in myself, and placed stock in the horse shit with which I've been brainwashed, I'd have relegated my sex life to my own hands.

Instead, I chose not to consume the lies.

If I hadn't garnered confidence, I would've fallaciously believed I wasn't one of the "privileged," who will get screwed more than a nut on an Indy 500 tire.

Rather, I chose to fuck thousands of women. I didn't dream about doing so; I just did it. I didn't listen, when a society that still doesn't realize it's enslaved, told me such was impossible. Thus...

Steaming girl cum air-dried on the fuck junky's cooling cock. Amidst tiki torches, he gazed at the south end of the Vegas Strip. A mile from Mandalay Bay, neon madness blazed in the distance.

Tfj had just fucked another toothless goddess, in some trashy motel, while hubby shot load after disgusting load of "fertilizer" on his wife's well-worn face.

The evening prior, the fuck junky had been loin-locked inside a bearded woman. It was a memory he was sure to replay on his beaten-up internal phonograph, whenever he exhaled his final breath.

Two hours later, our hero stood at the edge of the desert ― another numbered slave — gazing at the dark wild awaiting him. He was nine women short of 4,000, and closin' faster than a waited door with spring hinges.

Yeah, his existence on this Petri dish of the cosmos had been a non-stop Jerry Springer episode. He didn't have time to "own" a house, raise a "family," nor cultivate a "career." He was too busy fucking.

He'd watch, as humanity tripped over itself, never getting anywhere, nor accomplishing anything.

Who's gonna look back, while butchers ― doubling as doctors ― pound your chest; what's really you floating above your body, gazing down at the dead shell it once inhabited, and ruminate: "I'm thrilled I gave myself a coronary, so I could fill my bank account with useless paper!"?

Nobody, unless they're retarded. Hence, most people, at this juncture.

That stated, who wouldn't wanna reflect on thousands of pussies pounded; supermodels satisfied; hundreds of defiled damsels draining over one's pulsing protrusion?!

Out here, on the crusty, crumbling cliff of the troposphere, tfj looked ahead. He'd been in Sin City a month and a half, and already played with 85 new lasses. It was a Number most couldn't comprehend, and thus simply negated to ask about, when informed of.

The rational response would've been: "How?!" but it's painfully obvious this society left rational in the dust millennia ago.

Thus, people continued praying to gods who obviously weren't listening, and cowering in fear of a system they had the power to crush instantly. They became slave-making machines, by producing more of their kind, and thereby subjecting their children — innocent lives — to immediate incarceration.

The people were proficient at collecting paper...and the paper meant nothing. Hence, the people were adept at collecting nothing. This meant the people didn't accomplish anything, and as a result, they themselves became nothing.

Did they believe managing apartment complexes 90 hours per week would somehow equate to them living?! Did they think existing out of a semi truck was the path to lack of regret, when the soul parted from the corpse, and gazed back on its accomplishments?

"Fuck! I'm sure glad I stuck my diminishing dick into one woman the entire time I was here, closing hundreds of deals as a creepy real estate agent, as opposed to pursuing my passions!"

"Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, 'Wow! What a [fuckin'] ride!' "

― Hunter S. Thompson

The fuck junky stepped off the "perfect" pavement, grinding his sperm-stained boots into the gritty sand awaiting. A coyote shrieked in the blackness. It was seriously dark out here...

Yeah, this was the direction he needed to go.

Pockets overflowing with free condoms from the local swing club, flavored lube filling his mouth, he had work to do in the Entertainment Capital of the World. He'd only been here 45 days, and already the savings account in his memory bank was overflowing. Such stated, there was more to accomplish, before moving East.

He was nine shy of 4,000.

― authored by Hugh Mungus; a.k.a. the fuck junky