The Fourth Judge is Wary of Pervertmobiles

Most vans and trucks have some sort of logo on the side letting you know what businesses they represent. In New York City you see a lot of vans and trucks that forgo this tradition in favor of shoddily applied lettering, and they all use the same cheap letter stickers to do the job. Adding to the bootleggedness, the van owners never line up the letters correctly and the words wind up rising and falling at random. The end result is something very much akin to a ransom note.

Adding to the sketch factor, these vans and trucks never list a business name. It’s always just a street address, as if that holds any meaning for anyone. "Oh, there goes a truck for 249 Avenue R, Brooklyn, NY 11215. I hear they install great custom awnings.“

I can only assume these vehicles are owned and operated exclusively by rapists, serial killers, and serial rapists. I don’t know why they’d put their own addresses on their vans, but I have a few theories.[[MORE]]

First, I’d like to propose that perhaps this is how these creatures communicate with each other. Some pedophile sees a van parked on the street with an address written in ransom note font and makes a mental note to hit up the Avenue R Rape Den after he gets off work at Toys R Us.

Or maybe the government lets a convicted rapist drive a windowless van only if he agrees to put his address on it. This way the community can monitor his day-to-day activities. If the rapist pulls some rapey shit, the relevant citizens can find his house and burn it down, after revenge sodomizing him of course.

No matter the explanation for this phenomenon, seeing one of these vans is a bizarre and uncomfortable experience, and I don’t like it one bit. Can’t we take away some of my civil rights in return for a false sense of security?

There was a kid at a dinner party I went to the other night. I wasn’t sure if I could mention cocaine or hooters or butts in front of him, and it made me uneasy. I was very drunk, so I decided it was best to shut the hell up for once in my life. Nothing good could have come of it, and there was a legitimate possibility of landing myself in jail.

Don’t you think a host should be obligated to tell you if a child is going to be at a dinner party? Furthermore, don’t you think a host should be obligated to tell someone to go fuck themselves if they want to bring a child to a dinner party?

Is it an abuse of my powers to send private messages to my friends via this column?

This lady who works at the Dunkin Donuts near my office recognizes me. It’s kind of nice. I feel like I’m not completely alone in the universe. What’s awkward, however, is that because she recognizes me she thinks she should know my typical order. She doesn’t know my typical order, but she keeps trying to guess. She has never guessed correctly, but I’ve been too embarrassed to stop her. I go in wanting a bacon, egg, and cheese and a medium black coffee and I wind up leaving with two dozen plain donuts, an extra large decaf iced coffee with 12 splendas and an orange juice.

I wish I knew how to speak up for myself in the real world.

They recently put security cameras in all of the hallways in my building, and I find it completely outrageous. I flip them off every time I walk by them, but I feel like that’s not enough. I’m tempted to goatse myself in front of the cameras, but I don’t know if that’s the most effective way to practice civil disobedience. What would Martin Luther King Jr. do? Besides bang mad bitches while the FBI secretly recorded it?

This is weird, right? To have security cameras in every hallway in your building? I understand having something by the entrance ways to nab footage of intruders/dudes who drive vans with shitty lettering, but this hallway nonsense is some 1984, super max prison, Grade A horseshit. Don’t they have to ask my permission to do something like this? The last time I put a camera in someone’s home without consent I got a serious talking to from my parole officer.

Alright, guys. I’ve got a bunch of sexy stuff to talk about. Read on if you dare. Or, to put it more poetically, "Hold onto your butts.”

In a recent column I discussed my inability to wipe my own ass. As you could imagine, this effects my sex life. Firstly, I’m constantly worried about getting doo doo butter on the couch. If it’s my own couch, that’s one (heinous) thing, but I definitely don’t want to be the guy who leaves a poo streak on a young lady’s brand new chez lounge while she’s going down on me. I’ll forever be known as “that guy who shit on Lucy’s couch” to all her friends. This terrifies me to no end. There’s no guy I’d rather not be.

Then there’s something I like to call the Soiled Underwear Scenario, a scenario that comes into play with alarming frequency. Let’s say I’ve been leaking ass grease into my boxers all day. After I finish doing my thang I’ll put on my skivvies to go to the bathroom – I’m nothing if not a gentleman – but in order to avoid showing off the hershey squirt I have to do this awkward sideways shimmy. I’m pretty sure a girl or two has caught onto me. They probably don’t say anything because they don’t want to think of themselves as people who would have sex with a dude with a crap-filled crapper.

I’m not even going to get into worrying about stinking when a girl’s face is near my butt – we’ve all been there – but it certainly doesn’t make the proceedings any more relaxing.

Dear Lord, please teach me how to wipe my ass. You’ve helped Tim Tebow get to 7-1 as an NFL starter, why can’t you do this one small thing for me?

Everyone knows that condoms suck. I don’t need to get into the reasons why. However, there is one rather large benefit to using them, and no, it’s not AIDS or pregnancy prevention. That’s just propaganda perpetrated by the Illuminati to get us to wear these so called “condoms” so they can expose us to spermicidal lubricant which contains a highly potent mind control serum.

Anyway, the good thing about condoms is that when you wear them you know that any stains left on the sheets are from vagina juice and vagina juice alone. It’s a marvelous feeling to know that the bodily fluid Rorschach you’re looking at is there because you plowed that pussy and plowed it good. Without a condom? It’s probably just a bunch of your stinky man jizz. Nobody wants to see that.

I talk a lot about sex and “plowing chicks” in this column, but that’s only because I’m obsessed with doin’ it. It feels really good! I want to make absolutely clear, however, that it’s not because I fancy myself some sort of Don Juan. I promise you, I am not.

I also want to make absolutely clear that I respect women. I do not think of them as sex objects. I do not think I am better than them. I promise you, I am better than no one. Please, you have to believe me. The last thing I need is to become the next Tucker Max. That would be horrifying and I’d kill myself.

What it ultimately comes down to is the incontrovertible fact that sex is funny. There are penises and vaginae and butts and stuff! How great is that!?

In order to prove it to you and as penance for my sins, I’m willing to disclose some embarrassing things about myself of a decidedly physical nature. You know, in addition to the fact that I constantly walk around with poop in my butt.

For one, that poop-filled butt is as flat as A DAME WITH ITTY BITTY RAISIN TITTIES.

But seriously, I don’t have a butt. I’m told that’s something women want men to have from time to time.

I also have an incredibly weak jawline. Pathetically weak. Sickeningly weak. If I turn sideways and tuck my chin in I look like Earth Worm Jim. It’s horrifying.

Last, but certainly not least, I have a condition known as pectus excavatum. It’s exactly what it sounds like. I have a hole in my chest. That shit has been excavated. It’s good for eating ice cream out of, but otherwise it’s revolting.

So yeah, I get pretty excited when a chick plays with my penis for a little bit. Cut me some slack. I promise I’m not a monster.