Some things in life we just will not do, usually because we’re scared of jail and/or death, or simply because hey-we’re all respectable and shit. That’s where people like me come in, because people that write dick jokes for the internet have no shame, and are usually well-acquainted with the seamier side of life.

However, we’re also well aware that the people who frequent comedy sites are classy, monocle brandishing individuals with impeccable taste, who would balk at, say, finding the craziest woman in a seedy bar just to see what she’s like in the sack, or becoming a drug addict, or really anything you’re about to read here. Just keep in mind all these things were done for the sake of art, and not because they happen to be, like, hobbies or anything. Because they aren’t.

3. Crazy Women: Demons in the Sack, Or Just In Their Minds?

Now, in no way are we down with making fun of the mentally ill, in fact… Just to make sure, you got that thing about these terrible, terrible things not being hobbies or anything, right? I mean, these are not things I do for fun. These are awful acts, I know that, and the judge was perfectly clear on that score. So was the jury. Anyway, these things are wrong, I know they’re wrong, and I did them for arts sake, alright? We cool? Anyway, if I wasn’t in the trenches fighting for art’s sake, who would, people? Who would? Yeah, that’s right, no one. Okay. Just making sure. Anyway, as I was saying…

3. Crazy Women: Demons in the Sack, Or Just In Their Minds?

Now, in no way am I down with making fun of the mentally ill; in fact I’ve been assured by many highly trained professionals in the field of psychology that I am, most assuredly, exceedingly mentally ill. So the interests of… something? What did we agree on? Oh yeah, art-I went to the seediest bar in the city to find out if the kinds of women that patronize seedy establishments that advertise a ‘Ladies Night’ are crazy (yes), and if that craziness extended to the bedroom.

I entered, and was greeted heartily by Bobby, the bartender. I should point out that this seedy bar was also my regular, so there’s that. Anyhoo, I was looking to see if Crazy Mona was in her regular place, crawling on the floor asking the shag carpeting to read her fortune. As luck-and story convenience-would have it, she was. I was curious to find if Crazy Mona was, in fact, a crazy moaner, so I propositioned her like a gentleman: I left a trail of potato chips, ecstasy tablets, and roofied Twinkies from the bar to my home. Thank god I lived in the back room, so I didn’t have to waste too much of my weekly drug stash on this ersatz breadcrumb trail.

After luring Crazy Mona into my abode, it was time for business.

“Mona, I’ve loved you from afar for days, months, years even. It would be my greatest life accomplishment if you would allow me to make sweet, tender love to you for hours, ravishing you, bringing you closer and closer to release and, as you reach the precipice, drawing back and then taking you closer still, until you erupt in an explosion of ecstasy.”

I said this is my most Barry White of sexy voices.

“I ate a cat so it can fight the demons in my soul!” She replied in her most Exorcist of voices.

The conversation continued in this vein for some time, until the Roofies overcame poor Mona and she passed out on the vomit stain I call a rug.

Conclusion: Even a cad such as I couldn’t touch an unconscious woman, but I could tell people I did. I informed everyone who would listen that she was, in fact, conscious, and that I touched her. Repeatedly. Still, the act was not performed, so I’m afraid this one’s an ‘inconclusive’.

 

2. Blackmail: Convenient, or Convictable? Answer: Both!


 

Straight up, blackmail is a great way to solve problems. Of course, Photoshop is your friend; the mark knows he didn’t have sex with a goat in an SS uniform, but his friends, family and the world at large don’t.

In order to test this out, I needed a mark, preferably someone I had an issue with. Now there are no shortage of those; however finding one amongst them that actually had credibility to damage was a sight more difficult. After making a list of whom I considered credible, it came down to either Judge Heinburg, or God. Seeing as Judge Heinburg didn’t have Vatican City for a PR department, he became the mark.

After putting my ‘Shop skillz to work, I had a very credible depiction of His Honour in a compromising position. Somewhat less credible was the amount of penises he had crammed into his every facial orifice, but I figured people would just assume he was astonishingly enthusiastic. Time to get to work!

Conclusion:

The purpose of this article is to learn. (And art.) I hope you will learn, if you’re curious about such matters, what these topics are about so you don’t have to do them yourself. I learnt that striding into open court with two hundred doctored images showing a sitting judge felating, and for want of a better term, nose-fucking thirteen large black men and handing them out to everyone present isn’t how blackmail works. I also learnt that prison food sucks, however I’m pretty sure I could have deduced that myself without being forced to eat it for surprisingly longer than you’d think you’d have to, even taking into account the number of people I ratted on for a reduced sentence.

 

1. Heroin Addiction: Yeah, I Guess I Really Am That Stupid



 

This is the one I was most unsure about, but I had to find out: Is the shitty life of a dirty, smelly junkie secretly awesome? The answer may surprise you!

It is in no conceivable way secretly awesome, or any other kind of awesome. It’s about as far away from awesome as you can get, or to put it in real terms, if Mike Tyson represents awesome, being a junkie is so far away from awesome that it loops back around and runs in to Mike Tyson from behind. He then responds by punching you until he decides to rape you.

I won’t go into the whole injecting-myself-getting-hooked-stealing-your-toaster-and-DVD’s-for-more rigmarole that is junkie life, but I will offer some insight into other, more esoteric aspects of junkie-dom. For instance did you know that, when wasted on smack, thinking takes on a whole new dimension. It’s a dimension where you think “Holy… by Christ… I feel strongly… there’s a thing… that I think… aw shit. Fuckin’ blowjobs.” Is the greatest single thought in the history of our species. As far as you’re concerned, if that thought was a painting it would be the Mona Lisa being taken roughly from behind by Edvard Munch’s Scream while those creepy farmers – you know the dude with the pitchfork and his creepy wife? – cheered and high-fived in the background.

Also, personal hygiene becomes a non-issue: How could you possibly look, or smell, bad when you feel this good? Why, good sir, that is the very definition of unpossible! Junkies don’t look like crap and smell twice as bad because they hate themselves. It’s because they feel so fuckin’ fantastic that they just cannot care. Of course, your spit-and-old-newspaper universe comes crashing down when the drugs run out. Drug withdrawal is, without a doubt, the single worst thing ever. But is it worth it?

Conclusion: This one’s a lock. Emphatically, the answer is no. Sure, you could’ve probably just taken a stab at this one yourself without having to go through what I did, but art, remember? That’s why me and art have got each other’s backs, whereas you’re just standing there all alone, drug-free with nary a crazy chick in sight and no prison food.

Actually, you know what? Fuck art.

Find more of Aaron waxing poetic on the nature of all things illegal and dangerous over at http://shadowfilter.blogspot.com

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