The Fourth Judge Gets High On Life

I quit smoking weed. Well, that’s not exactly true. In fact, I’m smoking weed right now. But in general I quit. I’m not doing it every day any more. That period of my life is over.

I still love weed and everything it stands for, but it makes me lazy to a degree that I am no longer comfortable with. I don’t want to come home, blaze, then sit around marinating in my own mediocrity. It was fun for about ten years, but it’s getting old.

I want to make my life better than it currently is, if only by a little. Maybe if I work hard I can attain a level of success that will enable me to order food three nights a week. And I could get chef specials, too – menu items that are $15 or more, all by themselves. AND I’d get a fucking appetizer. Maybe two! Ooh and some sort of weird tea! The possibilities are almost endless (I think there are 45 factorial possibilities)! The orders would come to around $26 with tax and tip. Wouldn’t that be lovely?[[MORE]]

So I’ll still smoke weed from time to time. I’m hungover right now. I think that’s a decent excuse. And if I’m out partying and someone offers me a doob I probably won’t turn it down – don’t want seem like a loser! – but on a day-to-day, minute-to-minute basis, that shit is done.

You will reap the benefits, my Internet friends. There will be more Fourth Judge than ever, and it will be more lucid, lurid, and lascivious than you could possibly imagine. Satan will flinch when he reads what I have in store for you. Then he will laugh so hard that he pulls an oblique and has to politely turn down sex because he’s not really feeling up for it but his girlfriend is going to think there’s something fundamentally wrong with their relationship and it’s going to turn into this whole big thing and this is exactly why Satan didn’t want to get into anything serious to begin with.

Buckle up, children, it’s about to get a hell of a lot more Fourth Judgy around here.

Speaking of weed, the other night I went to an apartment party for New Year’s Eve. Well after midnight a contingent of people decided to go down to the street to smoke a joint. The lady of the house wasn’t cool with smoking inside, so this was the next best option.

Like I mentioned before, I didn’t want to be a HUGE FUCKING NERD, so I went downstairs with everyone else. We did our business, cracked some jokes, made some memories, but immediately after we finished smoking a cop car pulled up. A big fat shit of a woman and a big fat shit of a man got out of the car and started screaming at the top of their lungs.

The big fat shit of a woman went first. “WHO’S FUCKING SMOKING WEED? WHO IS IT? I FUCKING SMELL THAT WEED! WHO’S FUCKING SMOKING WEED?”

Thankfully nobody I was with was retarded so nobody said a god damn thing. The weed was on the ground and they didn’t see us smoking, so we were technically “in the clear.”

Since no one would confess, the disgracefully stupid, painfully pathetic police officers began to get frustrated, and the big fat shit of a man started screaming, “UP AGAINST THE WALL! UP AGAINST THE FUCKING WALL!”

Most people were a little slow to react, on account of being drunk and confused, so the big fat shit of a woman began to get physical and started shoving people.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? WHEN AN OFFICER TELLS YOU TO GET UP AGAINST THE WALL, YOU GET UP AGAINST THE FUCKING WALL.”

She then more or less politely asked us for our IDs. The sudden shift in tone was slightly jarring. Was she doing a one-woman good cop, bad cop?

Luckily, after running the two or three IDs she was able to procure (many people had left their wallets in their jackets upstairs in the apartment, which is weird to me, because what kind of man doesn’t keep his wallet in his pants), the big fat shit of a cunty miserable woman we grew to know and love came back to us.

“OK, LISTEN UP! I DON’T EVER WANT TO SEE ANY OF YOU IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD AGAIN! THIS SOHO IS MY SOHO! DO YOU HEAR ME? WE’RE LETTING YOU GO THIS TIME, BUT IF YOU EVER STEP FOOT IN HERE AGAIN, THERE ARE GOING TO BE PROBLEMS!”

It was all I could do to stifle my laughter. Ok, we get it, you big fat shits. You’re working on New Years, you’re pissed, and you see a bunch of presumably rich (JOKES ON YOU, I’M POOR!) white assholes in Soho “flagrantly” “flaunting” “your” “laws."

I get it. You’re going to haze us. But why do something so patently absurd as "banning” us from Soho? That’s simply not feasible. If you told me you were going to take me back to the station house and shove a fire extinguisher up my asshole, I’d believe the shit out of you and be horrified for the rest of my life, even if you didn’t follow through on your threat. Aim a little higher next time.

Also, I mean…IT’S SOHO! You cannot sound tough while telling someone to stay out of a neighborhood as revoltingly bourgeois as SoHo. You’re making a fool out of yourself.

So yeah, pretty big failure on the part of the big fat shits in blue. At least they provided a valuable public service in teaching me and my Ivy League Educated friends what it’s like to be a poor black person in America. We have now suffered right along with them, and in some ways, more than they will ever suffer. Some of us had coke in our jackets and were visibly shaken afterward. Can you imagine if it had been found? WE HAVE SO MUCH MORE TO LOSE THAN POOR BLACK PEOPLE! THINK OF THE HIT OUR POTENTIAL NET WORTHS COULD HAVE TAKEN!

So now we will go forth, armed with an identical if not more severe set of baggage than the African American community and educate the ignorant white masses on the horrors of police brutality.

You might say God was at work that night. Jesus, specifically. Christianity is the one true faith and anyone who says otherwise will burn in eternal hell fire.

I’m writing this next section in real time. It’s an experiment and it may not work, but bare with me. I have only the best intentions.

I wonder if I can jerk off before the Thai food gets here. I’ve got 45-60 minutes according to the automatically generated electronic order confirmation, but I can easily take 30 minutes to jerk it, especially if I’m going for a nice, leisurely jerk, which I am, and there’s no guarantee that it’s going to take that long. All I have to go on is an automatically generated electronic confirmation. What if Thai Tony is really on top of his game today and my tofu red curry gets here in record time? What then? How quickly can I wipe lotion off my hands? Do I have time to wipe it off my penis too, or will I have to stuff an enormous, fully-engorged, lotiony penis back into my blue jeans?

Even though I most likely have enough time to reach my goal, why add the anxiety of the Early Delivery Guy Arrival Scenario (EDGAS) to the situation? Who needs the stress? I am pretty hungry though, so maybe I should jerk it. If I do I have no doubt there will be a creepy little weirdo knocking on my door in 20 minutes (NO, NOT MY PENIS! HAHAHA!), and if I don’t my food is guaranteed to take at least an hour and a half to get here.

Now that I’ve taken the time to write this section, I don’t think I have enough time to jerk off before the delivery guy gets here.

I’ve decided not to jerk off before the delivery guy gets here.

I tend to not call my parents when I’m feeling shitty about myself. I mean, sure, maybe once in a while I go crying to mommy when I feel like NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE OR UNDERSTAND ME AGAIN, but in general I only call my folks when I feel completely on top of the world.

I suppose most people turn to their parents in times of crisis, but I’m the kind of guy who takes perverse pleasure in his own feelings of shame and inadequacy. I’d rather revel in my own (ass) stink than pick myself up by my boot straps.

I’m also something of a braggart by nature, and as a braggart, I much prefer to tell tales of conquest than tales of woe. At least with family. With friends, coworkers, postal workers, and Internet followers I’m nothing but a constant stream of depression and teeth gnashing. I mean, you’ve read this far, haven’t you?

Why do I feel so much more comfortable talking about what’s going wrong in my life with everyone but my family? How come the people you grow up around are the people you’re least able to be yourself with?

If you know, please leave a note in the bustling comments section below.

It’s the New Year, which means we as a site are supposed to wish you all nothing but the best during the next 12 months. I don’t want you to have the best, though. I want it for myself. If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll realize that you feel the same way.

Rot in hell, motherfuckers. 2012 is mine and I won’t stop till you’re all lying in my wake.

I was just kidding about that last part, guys. Come on, I’m not a fucking monster. Of course I want nothing but the best for you all. Without you, Stiff Jab is nothing but a steaming load of cum being shot into the void. It would still feel good to us, but it would always be empty compared to the deep, emotional connection that is formed when shooting a steaming load onto another human being with hopes, fears, and dreams.

Speaking of sociopaths, you guys should all check out sociopathworld.com. It’s a valuable resource for helping identify the sociopaths in your life. Unfortunately, they are legion!

Oh yeah, one more thing. The other day there was so much blood on the toilet paper that I seriously considered the possibility that I was drunk enough the night before to have forgotten getting raped. This lasted about four hours before the ass pain calmed down and I started thinking clearly again.