The Fourth Judge Loves Pocketless Pants

December 1st, 2011 10:44am by Stiff Jab Tumblr

I love it when a girl’s pants don’t have back pockets. Without pockets there’s nothing between me and that tush but a thin layer of fabric, easily removed by my mind. I’m assuming classy girls think this look is trashy, but I don’t care. I’m obsessed with it.

Sometimes I’ll see a butt in pocketless pants and start mentally fucking it. Then the owner of the butt will turn around and it’s a 65-year-old, balding, she-beast. And you know what? I’d still fuck that pocketless butt. That’s how strong the allure is.[[MORE]]

Every time I wash a knife I think about jerking off. It’s impossible not to. The motions are identical. There’s soap. The object is long. Sometimes I get confused and think I’m actually stroking my dick until the cat bites my leg and I snap out of it. It’s not the bite that does it. My cat bites me when I’m jerking off for real. But when I look down to see what’s causing the ouchie I realize my dick isn’t out.

Anyway, sometimes when I wash a knife, on account of all the jerking similarities, I sing Night Fever to myself, only I sub out Night Fever for Knife Penis.

“Knife Penis, Knife Penis / We know how to do it!”

It’s probably possible to clean a knife without singing Knife Penis to yourself, but I’m not the kind of person who can avoid it. Sort of like how most people can’t go a day without pretending to care about their jobs and families so as to avoid contemplating the endless nothingness that awaits us all upon our deaths.

Should I not talk about the endless nothingness that awaits us all upon our deaths in a humor column?

The other day I got stuck on a subway car that stalled in a station in a seedy part of Brooklyn. The conductor said there was a sick passenger ahead, which means someone’s been murdered or someone’s jumped onto the tracks. Either way, body parts are getting scraped off of something and you’re not going anywhere for a little while.

Normally I take this kind of thing in stride, but on this particular evening I had just finished spending six hours in a bar watching football and had to pee with an alarming urgency.

After pacing the subway car for 20 minutes or so, I decided to make a break for it and find a place to piss. I couldn’t do it in the station because the train was parked there, obviously, so I had to make a dash up the stairs into the real world.

I had no idea where I was, but it was a fairly busy part of the hood so street pissing was out of the question. The only business open at this time of night was a Chinese takeout joint, the kind with bullet proof glass in front of the counter. I knew that trying to use this bathroom was an impossible task, but I had to try.

The following is a rough transcript of the conversation I had with the lady behind the counter.

Frenzied Drunk: Look, I know you don’t ever let anyone use your bathroom but could you please, please make an exception for me? The subway is stuck down there and I desperately have to pee.