by Leon Black
Point is, if you’re a dude, don’t get a fucking dude for a roommate if you can help it. Think about it: It’s a lot more pleasant to watch your roommate carry a bunch of clothes to the laundry and drop a pair of panties on the floor than a pair of shit-stained boxer briefs.
If you do manage to get a lovely lady for a roommate, try and hit that immediately. ’Cause if you don’t, you’ll be needlessly burdening your body by being fake. Men can’t fucking pretend. I mean, shit, Three’s Company ruined a lot of people’s lives, spreading bullshit about functioning properly with two voluptuous feminine figures in your face all day.
Whatever your roommate situation is, be it shit-stained boxer or lacey panties, you need to take the term “roommates” seriously. That shit is deep. You are mates. Partners. Interconnected like fucking Legos. That shit is deeper than marriage—while you don’t have no fucking contract, that bond is universally known and understood.
The term “roommate,” I believe (Use “I believe” when you don’t know for a fact, ’cause even if you are wrong, it’s still what you believe) came from shipmate. See, if the ship springs a leak and water starts pouring in, you both go down with it. So if your roommate comes to you acting like you’re his or her fucking therapist and says, “I just lost my job,” you don’t say, “Aw man, that sucks!” and give him a hug. You look him in the eye and say, “Hell no! You mean WE lost OUR job!” and “WE need to make sure YOU get another one so YOU can pay YOUR damn share of the rent!” Or if your roommate’s crazy fucking girlfriend won’t stop calling him, don’t take him out for a night of vodka shots and Russian hookers to relax! You drive him over to a wacko’s house, shove him onto the front doorstep, and say, “Straighten this shit out ’cause I don’t need her psycho ass throwing a brick through OUR goddamn window.”
STYLE MASTER
If you know anything about me, you know I have an individual sense of style. You see, I’m creative: I can take a little and stretch that shit. Now, I’m not the shopping type: I don’t have the patience to go into some damn store and try to match a pair of trousers with some damn dress shirt—I’ve got more important shit to do. Plus if there’s one thing I know it’s that the people who make the clothes you wear have a plan! They’ll make the collars on your shirts long as fuck and tell you that’s what everyone is wearing, and then six months later they’ll come out with some stingy ass little collars and tell you your long ass, hang-gliding collars are “out,” leaving your ass stuck with a closet full of Goodwill shit and a camera full of “What the fuck was I wearing!” photos!
No, I don’t shop, I acquire. A free t-shirt or a lost-and-found blazer here, a pair of sneakers hanging from a telephone wire there. Oh, hell yeah, I’ll climb a telephone pole for a pair of Jordans, are you kidding me? I wish some dumb ass kid would throw more stuff up there, a fucking iPad, a book bag full of book bags—hell, if you’re gonna throw away valuable shit like that, I’ll be there to acquire it.
Now, as for, as they say in the white world, “acquisitions,” you have to be open to what the market offers you. It ain’t like shopping on Amazon; acquisitions come at you like great stock tips—you overhear it. You overhear someone at some fancy, seven-dollar coffee shop suggest you buy orange futures. Now, you don’t know what the fuck an orange future is or what people do with them, but you got that tip and you buy it, and usually tips like that pay off. Well, fashion acquisitions work the same way: You’re at a bodega (for the whitely impaired, think “specialty market,” only a bodega’s specialties are old bread, dirty sandwiches, and lottery tickets), and someone says, “Maaaaaan, there’s some lady down the block throwing her old man’s shit out the window!” See, now that’s a tip that you better get on quickly if you really want to take advantage of it! So you go down the block and you scan the situation and you see drawers and t-shirts and run-of-the-mill shit, shit nobody wants. But then you see it, lying there by a hydrant, a poncho, a damn Clint Eastwood–looking ass poncho—now that’s a valuable acquisition.
Why would a poncho catch my eye? you say. Because that shit is unique! That’s the type of shit you make a fashion statement in! I mean, think of the damn term “Fashion Statement”! At the core is “statement,” and statement means to say something! You’re gonna tell me that if you walked into a bank trying to get a loan wearing that damn poncho, you’re gonna tell me that’s not making a statement?!?! Or showing up for a meeting with your kid’s teacher, one of them meetings where the teacher is gonna tell you about your bad ass kid? You think that teacher isn’t gonna think twice about saying some ridiculous shit about your kid!?! Especially if you squint your eyes at her ass like Clint Eastwood did in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, For a Few Dollars More, Dirty Harry, oh and I think he did a movie with a monkey, yeah Every Which Way but Loose, he squinted his ass in that movie, too. By the way, either the sunlight is always in that man’s face or he needs some damn glasses.
But look here, don’t get crazy with your statements. You don’t ever want to get caught in a nightclub wearing pajamas. And you know the type of onesie pajamas I mean, the Christmas Carol shit with the dumb ass nightcap and the two-button trap door on the ass for lazy muthafuckas who don’t want to take off their pajamas to take a shit. You show up looking like that thinking you’re giving off a casual bedroom look, but instead you just look like you’re a stupid ass sleepy muthafucka who should be home lying in bed drooling with a bunch of them cartoon ZZZZs coming out of your mouth, counting some dumb ass sheep. Which, by the way, I never understood why counting sheep was supposed to be some relaxing thing to make you go to sleep. Have you ever been around a sheep? They shit everywhere! They walk and shit, like elephants at the circus—they can’t control it.
Why would you want some loose bowel ass animal jumping over your head while you’re sleeping?
How is that relaxing?
BLACK BELT IN FUCKING
Just ’cause you tap a few asses doesn’t mean you are an expert at tapping ass! Tapping ass is an art form, sort of like martial arts. And in order to become an expert, you must explore the fucking arts. If you are free of commitments, free of inhibitions, and free of worldly constraints, you owe it to yourself to tap as much ass as possible until you master the tapping arts.
And trust, just like martial arts, there are many different styles of fucking. Consider the infamous Shaolin Temple: Fighters would travel from near and far bringing with them their fighting skills. What they learned once they got there was that there were many different styles. As it is true with Kung Fu, it is also true with Kung Fuck. There are many styles; some people are experts at foreplay; some with positions; some master toys; others have extensive knowledge of oils, like baby and olive. I myself prefer coconut, but that’s just me. To truly be an expert at fucking you must master all of these disciplines. So just as they do at the Shaolin Temple, the students are sent out into the world to hone their craft and in turn become Fuck Masters themselves, thus achieving the sacred and revered black belt in fucking.
Now obviously no one starts off with a black belt. There are many different colored belts, and each one represents a different level. There are a lot of different colors: The lowest level is white, that’s for the person who hasn’t even smelled a hint of ass. Once you see a lady naked (not nude, there is a difference), you have entered the game, and from then on you start moving up: touch a little nipple—blue; rub a little ass—yellow! You keep going from there: green, fuchsia, fucking taupe, the colors keep going, a lot of damn colors—just like there are a lot of sexual acts! Master a particular act, get a higher belt; the better the act, the higher the belt! Sitting at the top of all of those belts is, like, my name and the color of my ass: bee-lack!
Now, if you have a black belt in fucking, you should be able to walk into the bedroom wearing nothing more than that belt and tear shit up, no props or sex toys necessary. But you don’t just get to be a black belt. I mean, you can touch yourself and others all you want, but to achieve true mastery, you need a
sinsay. Now, what is “sinsay,” you ask. It’s like a “sensei” or “teacher” in martial arts, only in fucking it’s called “sinsay” because he/she teaches you about sin.
To be honest, I think belts are such a good way to distinguish levels that we should use them in other places. Shit, wearing belts might help get rid of racism. See, if everyone wore colored belts, people would judge you by the color of your belt and not the color of your skin, that way they would be racist against your belt and not you. It wouldn’t end racism, but it would be a start—because no matter what, you could always take that fucking belt off. It’s not perfect but I’ll keep working on it.
Or how about this: Companies should have belts instead of titles. Obviously, the boss should have the black because he’s the one in charge, and then everyone should have belts below his. But, to keep sharp, the boss should give one custodian a special belt, one that’s even higher than the boss’s! It’s like a personal belt, shit made out of suede or leather. That special belt should have no meaning to anyone but the boss. You see, everyone needs someone to keep them sharp, so that damn custodian should have the freedom to kick the boss in the ass every now and then.
As for martial arts itself, while I respect it, to be honest, when I’m walking down the street and I look through the window of a karate shop and I see a bunch of kids practicing karate with their parents on the side watching them as they strut around with their karate suits on and them damn belts . . . while I enjoy the fact that those damn kids are learning order and structure, I have to admit that, sometimes, I want to run in there and knock their teacher the fuck out, then point one hand over my head at 12 o’clock, and the other by my side at three . . . Just to show them kids what time it is. Then leave before the cops come.
By the way, if you never quite understood what bringin’ the ruckus meant . . . that’s what the fuck it is.
THE POHTA
POHTA stands for “President of Hitting That Ass,” and I am the president of hitting that ass! You know how many asses in how many cities I had to hit to get into office? How many rest stops I campaigned in? You think it’s easy to win Montana? No disrespect to Montana, but there is not a lot of quality ass in that motherfucking state to hit, that’s just my opinion . . . I did say “No disrespect.”
Don’t believe it’s a real title? I’ve included a letter below from the former POHTA acknowledging me:
It is with great sorrow and respect that I concede the presidency to Leon Black, who will be the next President of Hitting That Ass. We ran a great campaign, and I’d like to thank my staffers for introducing me to thousands of women who succumbed to my charms and made this such a close race. No matter how hard I tried, and how much I hit that ass, I could not compete with Leon Black’s charm, skill set, drive, and ability to ignore all external stimuli/decorum and just hit that ass no matter the circumstances. I thought we had Delaware. I really did. The women there were challenging, but nevertheless, I plowed through with gusto. Despite my efforts, however, Leon proved invincible, and he not only hit the asses I already hit, he hit the asses of mothers, grandmothers, and great-great-grandmothers. He crossed lines I didn’t know existed, and he did so with love, passion, and a real belief in the importance of hitting that ass.
I want to thank all my supporters for their tireless efforts. I still plan on remaining in the vibrant world of hitting that ass, despite not attaining its highest office. I wish Leon Black all the success and perks that the office of President of Hitting That Ass offers.
All The Best, Willie “Sweet Dick” Jenkins
See that shit! That shit is real! Respect the office, muthafucka!
VD GETS AROUND
With my rep of being the President of Hitting That Ass and having a black belt in fucking, I don’t want you to get the idea that Leon is reckless.
Never, I repeat never tap some ass without protection! I get it, I’ve been there, I know how it is, nobody wants to stop the action, put their clothes on, drive to the store, to your local bodega, Walgreens, Target, wherever you go—I get it—that type of pause in the action fucks shit up! It’s just like making some Oodles of Noodles, you boil some of them noodles, drop your flavor pack in, get your shit just right, then the phone rings. You don’t want to pick it up, but you see it’s your lady is on the other line, all emotional and shit, so you can’t tell her you’ll call her right back but you also can’t eat them hot ass noodles while she’s talking to you because you know you’ll wind up slipping and giving yourself away and she’ll be like, “Stop eating them fucking noodles! I hear you making them hot hot noises (those noises everyone makes when they eat the noodles while they’re really too damn hot to consume), so instead you sit there watching them damn noodles dry out just like your lady would right in front of your face . . . so you see I know what I’m talking about.
Despite all that, I think some of you fellas out there take this shit too lightly. Part of the problem is because some of the terminology that is used, shit like Unplanned Pregnancy is misleading. See, a term like that will fuck you up because really if you have a miscue and wind up with a baby or an STD for that matter, you will find yourself in an Unplanned Relationship—with that lady, her husband, your doctor, and unless you are planning to be a deadbeat, your new damn kid! Do you know what it means to be a deadbeat? It means if you don’t send that child support they will garner the fuck out of your damn check! Do you understand what kind of buzzkill that is? When you’re expecting a check for $623.11 only to open that envelope and see a check for $206.17—buzzkill like a muthafucka! Oh yes unpaid child support claims will pop up anywhere at anytime, at the DMV, when you try to redeem a winning lottery ticket . . . trust just like that baby mamma you fucked and the little child you fucked over that unpaid child support will follow you for the rest of your life!
Now I know what some of you are saying, “Leon, every now and then the situation arises and I got to do what I got to do.” No muthafucka, NO!!! Look, I know for some of you tear that ass opportunities don’t come around that often! I get that shit! But that is no excuse! You have to look at those moments with a MacGuyver mentality! See, we know when MacGuyver is in a tough spot he improvises with shit so just imagine if all that stood between him and getting some ass was protection!?! You know that muthafucka would find a way! I don’t care if all he had was an eraser, a shoestring and a chewed-up piece of bubble, you know that muthafucka would find a way to protect his shit while tearing some ass up! Hey MacGuyver, if you’re reading this book just know, I’m a big fan!
That’s what the fuck you got to do, use whatever the fuck is at your disposal but don’t just use it, be resourceful with that muthafucka! Take something like a balloon, not a round one, one of those long skinny ones like the clowns use, they call them pencil balloons. Now you know you could stretch that onto your Johnson but don’t just stop there, tell your lady to blow a little air in there and then make shit out of it, be creative. Make one of dachshund dogs or a fucking trombone, something fucking whimsical, ladies love themselves some whimsical shit! Know what I mean by “whimsical”? Beauty and the Beast, that’s some whimsical shit right there.
Or suppose you brought your lady some flowers and she was so turned on by that shit that she wanted you to tear that ass up, but your dumb ass didn’t bring any condoms? Well, you may not have brought condoms but you damn sure brought flowers and wrapped around them damn flowers is cellophane—perfect for wrapping your shit up. Now your dick is also a bouquet! See that, you gave her two bouquets! Sometimes the dumbest shit makes sense if you just think about it! Imagine how overwhelmed that lady would be if you handed her that bouquet, then opened up your pants and showed her that second bouquet! Ta-da!
Look, if the shit I mentioned earlier is too exotic, there’s always the basics—Ziplocs.
Yes, I said it: Simple ass food storage Ziplocs keep stuff nice and fresh. Think about it, you could put a sandwich in a Ziploc and forget about that shit for days. Then one day you pull that Ziploc ou
t of your pocket, open it up, and have that cheese, meat, and bread ’cause it will still be fresh. Fresh! And nothing like a fresh Johnson to keep a woman happy. Keep in mind this advice is for muthafuckas who are preparing to “Tear some ass up!” not “Make love.” If you are looking to make love, you are probably in a committed long-term relationship, and I’m not tryin’ to hate on your ass, I mean good for you but to be honest, this advice ain’t for you. There are plenty of romance novels out there, plenty of them, I call them tearjerkers; this book is not one of those. So out of respect for your lady and your situation you probably need to close the book now and put this shit down because this shit is for muthafuckas who tear up multiple asses . . . not committed muthafuckas!
MATTRE-ASSES
I don’t think that people consider mattresses enough. A mattress is extremely important: You sleep on it, fuck on it, get sick on it and get well on it, you spend at least a third of your life on it. Hell, a mattress is way more important than a car, and yet I’ve never seen anyone get a mattress as a graduation gift. As for me, I’ve put a lot of thought into mattresses over the years and I’ve fucked on every style and size—twin, full, queen, eastern king, California king, Larry David’s king, Wyoming king, and the extremely rare behemoth the 9×9 Alaskan king, orgy size—and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a Sealy Posturepedic man. I don’t like that memory foam shit. You don’t need a mattress that’s gonna remember the butt print from the last lady you made love to. That’s a recipe for disaster when a new butt makes a visit.