by Leon Black
TAURUS: The Bull. I’d like to see a Taurus fuck an Aries. How cool would that be? A bull fucking a ram. I wanna be a matchmaker on this one. The question is, who would wind up fucking who? Would the ram fuck the bull, or vice versa? Put them both in the same cell block to see who the fuck comes out. One of them will get fucked. I’d watch that episode of Orange Is the New Black in a heartbeat.
CAPRICORN: Half-fish, half-goat. That might be the worst fucking sign there ever was. Goatfish. Sounds like a dish you get at a Jamaican restaurant. You get to the ER with food poisoning and tell them you ate some goatfish, they’ll just tell you, “You’re an idiot for eating that shit. You deserve it.” And are you telling me I gotta lay in bed, with my half-man, half-horse body, and try and get romantic with a fucking goatfish? We would be like two fucking idiots in that goddamn bed. My horse dick thwacking around, while she’s dragging her fin across my face. That shit would start bad and end badly. I’m picturing her kicking me in the horse balls with her powerful ass goat legs. I’m not into some ball torture!
VIRGO: Virgo’s a weird one. She’s a virgin, and who the fuck wouldn’t want to have sex with a virgin?! Then again, if she’s a thirty-five-year-old virgin, shit can get a little hairy, literally. It’s like if you put something in storage, when you open it five or six years later, you gotta know there’s a good possibility it could very well be wrinkled and moldy. So if you’re contemplating fucking a thirty-five-year-old virgin, take into consideration how long her shit’s been in storage.
ARIES: Now I know I talked earlier about Aries the Ram fucking around with Taurus the Bull, but now I want to talk about it fucking with me. See this one is tough. Now remember, I’m a Sagittarius, part horse with a strong ass horse body. Here comes a damn Aries Ram. A Ram is a powerful-looking animal with round muscular hindquarters—sexy! Problem is it still has a Ram head and Rams have long ass faces. A Ram lady is like an unattractive athlete, sexy while she’s competing but not so sexy at the post-game press conference. Plus Rams like to butt heads, that means they like to argue, and the last thing you need when you come home late one night is some long-face Ram screaming at you, talking about, “Where you been?!” right before she bucks you unconscious.
MOUTH ON YOU
Certain shit makes me excited, like a woman with a smart ass mouth. I love that you don’t know what’s going to upset them, what they’re gonna say or do when they get up, and best of all, how intense that makeup sex will be. Take it from me, a relationship should not always be blissful; that’s boring ass shit. Too many muthafuckas want serenity, but you need bumps in the road, they give you character. Now, when I say “bumps,” I don’t mean potholes or craters, but more like when a woman gets so pissed she’ll leave your shit out on the sidewalk, like everything you own—all your underwear, your papers, your reclining chair—that’s a damn bump!
And you always need to treat your relationship like you would treat your job: Leave only one cardboard box full of stuff at her house. The last thing you want when you get fired from your job is to have to make two or three trips, and the last thing you want when you break up is to leave that crazy lady with a lot of your stuff. As much as I love a smart-mouth woman, one of the many dangers of being with one is that at any moment she could get mad at you and destroy all of your belongings. And trust me, she will get creative with her destruction. If you’re lucky, the more easygoing ones tend to leave your shit out on the street. Some of your angrier ones tend to light your shit on fire, while other really cruel ones bleach your shit. I know fire sounds like the bad one, but bleach is hard fucking core. To be honest, I’d rather they burn my shit than bleach it. See, if your shit is burned, it’s done, no question about it; but with bleached stuff you will inevitably make the mistake of trying to salvage things. Truth is, you’ve got to let your bleached shit go—I mean, you’ll never be able to tell your red shirt from your white shirt because you’ll be stuck with a pile of pink shirts.
I can’t stress enough how bad bleach is—or, more precisely, how bad “Murder Bleach” is. On TV the only thing they use bleach for is to clean up a murder. Now, not every bleach is Murder Bleach. Brand-name bleaches like Clorox, that’s for clothing, to take spaghetti sauce stains from a white tank top and shit like that. Clorox can’t be used for cleaning murders ’cause then they’d be advocating murder and they would make the crime scene smell like a summer breeze or a tropical forest. Murder Bleach is the bleach that comes in a big ass white container and says “Bleach” on it—no damn brand name, just “Bleach” . . . that’s Murder Bleach.
COURTIN’
Fuck the financial burden of traditional courtship: dating, flowers, a shitload of pointless restaurants. The most important part of courtship is making sure your stuff and her stuff line up. When I say “stuff,” I mean your Johnson and her vagina.
How you go about lining your stuff up is important. Don’t try checking it while you’re in bed lying down, that’s too easy. You gotta stand facing each other ’cause you may want to make love standing up sometimes, like in a closet or—if you’re white—on an airplane to join what they call “the mile-high club.” Black people can’t get away with shit like that. A white couple comes out of an airline bathroom all disheveled and shit, the flight attendant will just smirk and give a naughty tsk-tsk with her fingers to the couple. Have a black couple fall out of that bathroom, what do you think would happen!?! In a few words, Taser and YouTube video! It’s just as well—black folk have way too much ass to fuck in one of them tiny ass bathrooms!
Back to lining up; once you check alignment, time to take a test drive.
Understand this: Alignment isn’t just about height, it’s about how you fit together in many different ways. Make sure her skin doesn’t make your skin itchy, like this one lady who had some weird contagious eczema shit. Her shit was so bad she could light a match off her ass like those cartoon characters do. It was some wild shit to see up close. Make sure you own a onesie pajama with a button-up latch in your private area for relieving yourself and for all sexual situations where you don’t want to make skin-to-skin contact.
If you don’t have a onesie and you want to have sex with someone whose skin is sketchy, there’s always olive oil. Olive oil is a magical lubricant for face and body. If you rub your whole body with it, what you’re doing is creating a protective coating to keep your skin safe from whatever the fuck they have. But none of that extra virgin bullshit! What the fuck is that about? How could it be extra virgin? Extra virgin? Sure, that’s every man’s dream, but that’s just some greedy shit. As if plain virgin ain’t good enough. Dammit, you’ll never be satisfied! And let me tell you something, when you think about it, you don’t really want an extra virgin. You will break your dick trying to get into that shit. And if you do get in there, you probably won’t be able to get out. You wanna end up in the ER lying on a gurney with your dick inside this extra virgin Catholic chick, the hospital so embarrassed that they have to cover the two of you with a sheet? And next thing you know, her fucking religious ass parents show up looking disappointed in her and disgusted at you!?!
Lastly, when courting, always keep your shit well groomed. This goes for both genders. Always make a point of keeping a clean-shaven face: That way you don’t cause any skin irritations on your lover—except if she’s into the whole hipster beard with that curly handlebar moustache shit. And if you want to get into some kinky shit, clean each other like monkeys do—that’s primal shit. Now, I’m not telling you to pick lice off someone’s head and eat them, I mean serious, deep cleaning. Sit your ass in one of those big ass round metal tubs, then grab some cleaning instruments and start scrubbing. I’m talking using Q-tips and toothbrushes, making sure to get into every nook and cranny on each other’s body. Going places where the sun don’t shine. That’s real courtin’ right there.
TATS
Look, I’m not gonna tell you whether or not you should get a tattoo. That’s your fucking body, do with it what you want. I do suggest, tho
ugh, that before you put that permanent ink on your body, think long and hard! Tattoos are not a game, unless they are the ones you get out of a Cracker Jack box, the ones you lick and press on your arm. Actually, I’m not even sure if they put them in there anymore, I like Crunch ’n Munch. Those tattoos wash off with soap and water; a real tattoo needs a fucking laser to get it off, and even when it comes off it leaves a mark to remind you of the stupid mistake you made one drunken night in Cabo.
Look, you get a rose or some Chinese symbol, what can I say, that’s what you wanted. Obviously you need to make sure you know what the Chinese symbol means in English ’cause trust me, if I was tattooing and I knew you hadn’t taken the time to look shit up, you had best know I would write some dumb shit on your lower back, ladies. Shit like—My Other Car Is a Benz, If You Can Read This You’re Too Close, or My Kid Is on the Honor Roll. You know, stupid shit like that. Crazy damn MILF!
The real danger lies when you start tattooing names on your body. If you tattoo your own name, you’re safe—egotistical . . . possibly forgetful—but safe. It’s when your dumb, hopeful ass tattoos the name of someone you’re dating, that’s when you’re looking for trouble. You have to be careful when you tattoo your significant other’s name on you because if you break up, you’re going to spend the rest of your life either:
1. looking for someone with that name;
2. looking for someone who is okay with seeing another person’s name on you because they are into threesomes;
3. looking for someone else dumb enough to have someone else’s name on them.
Bottom line: Tattoos are permanent! That shit costs hundreds of dollars to remove and it’s painful!
Now, I get that some tattoos are sexy, but why not enjoy the same look by just purchasing a box of washable markers? I’m telling you, get some, get with your significant other, and doodle on each other! That’s sexy as shit! Draw hearts and stars, and if you want to get creative, write sexy things like Enter here, No shirts, no service, or my personal favorite, Backing up can cause severe tire damage! And here’s another fun option: Doodle some ants all over your lady. When she looks at them, just tell her the ants are attacking her. When she asks you why, you tell her it’s because she’s so sweet! Ladies love shit like that!
I can hear some of you screaming that I don’t get it, that one of the main points of tattooing is that it is permanent. That it’s a commitment. Really? Is that what you’re saying? You’re hard core like that?! Sorry, but I’m not impressed by some dumb ass tattooing Tracy on the back of his neck only to break up with Tracy three months later. You wanna impress me? Don’t tattoo her name on you, tattoo her whole damn body on you! A life-size tattoo! Have a tattoo that starts just under your chin and goes all the way down to your feet. It should be a tattoo of the back of her lying on the front of you. You get what the hell I’m saying? I want it so that when you’re lying on your back, that tattoo looks like your lady is lying on top of you! Now that’s a damn permanent ass tattoo! Shit, if I ever was to get one, though, I would get something that is useful, like a tattoo of pockets on both my hips with money coming out of them—that way I’d always have cash on me. Tat-heads, don’t steal that one.
BALLS AND CHAINS
Before you get married, find out if you got yourself an all-inclusive partner. Do you know what that is? That’s a partner who offers all the perks! You see, getting married is like taking a long ass cruise, and if you know anything about cruises, it’s very important that you know what’s included—before that damn ship sails! And a wedding is like when that ship leaves: If you wait till after it’s at sea to find what you’ve got, you may want to jump overboard and drown yourself somewhere in the Pacific.
If you have determined that your partner is an all-inclusive, first of all, good for you: all-inclusive ain’t easy to come by! The next thing you will need to do right before your ass gets married is to sign some REAL VOW documents. I’m talking about the shit you don’t talk about when you exchange marriage vows. They include a contract and a waiver. The contract is for One Freak Night of Sexual Activity a Week and the waiver is Against Injury Incurred During Said Freaky Night—injuries such as Rug Burn (occurring either to the knees or crotch), Headboard Knot (occurring on the lady’s head as a result of pounding against the headboard), or Double Whammy (occurring when an intense session causes both).
With the agreements in place, it’s on to the actual day. Now, on that big day, I know it’s part of some old ass tradition, but I’m telling you now: Don’t let anyone in the room be called the “best man.” You’re the best man! You’re the groom, right? You have the nicest suit on, right? The bride picked you, right? So you’re the best damn man in that room! If I ever get married, I’m going to be my own best man.
See, the bride doesn’t even try to mess with some bullshit like that! A lady would never let her best friend be called the “best woman”! What?!? There ain’t no way that damn bride is gonna have some woman running around her wedding, claiming to be the best woman! As a matter of fact, the bride makes sure her friend knows what time it is by calling her the “maid of honor.” A fucking maid—that’s some control shit, but I can’t argue with it. I say take a hint from the bride and call the best man the “butler of honor.” And then, just to make sure that neither one of them steals either of your shine, let the two of them fuck each other’s brains out in the bathroom while you schmooze your guests and eat all the overpriced catering that everyone is complaining about behind your back anyway. Remember, this is your fucking day!
All things being equal, people should always elope. Don’t get me wrong: Go have fun planning, tasting cakes, and trying on shiny outfits. Hell, even set a date and send out invites. But when the time comes, you and your bride grab a ladder, climb out some window, and elope. Leave those stupid ass guests sitting there waiting for you! They will thank you! You think they want to be there?! Nobody wants to go to some dumb ass reception, eat terrible food, and dance with people from five different age groups. When you elope, you solve all those problems, plus you give your guests some gossip to bitch about! People love to gossip and talk shit about bad weddings!
If you can’t tell, I hate going to weddings! Most of the ones I’ve been to should not have happened, and I knew it. I bet you’ve wanted to stop a wedding or two in your day—I bet most people have. Problem is, people are too scared to speak up when the preacher asks if anyone sees a reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony blah blah blah . . . Me? I’m not scared of shit! I will stop a wedding! I’ll bring one to a dead halt! I’ll stop it for dumb shit, too. One time, I objected because the bride and groom both had weird ass shapes—they were both top-heavy! See, that shit could never work! As I have mentioned earlier, people are like Lego pieces: They need to fit together, literally! If one is top-heavy, the other needs to be bottom heavy so that they can interlock while fucking!
I’m surprised more weddings don’t get stopped, because that’s too much damn power to give an audience! Imagine if they gave audiences on Broadway that power. Imagine how many times plays would get stopped with some muthafucka wanting a refund! Wicked, Grease, Hamilton!?!
Imagine that! Fucking Hamilton! You bought some tickets two years ago and patiently waited for the night of your ticket date to roll around. Finally that day comes, you get dressed up, get a babysitter, and head over to the theater. You get there, sit in one of those tiny 1920s Broadway seats, and you get excited as the lights go down. All of a sudden, the cast of Hamilton is rapping. You stare in disbelief at the people around you. You are shocked. You hate rap, and you damn sure didn’t know that they would be rapping the whole damn thing! You sit there and take about as much as you can handle, and halfway through the show you object! Now they got to stop the show. Then the police come and tackle you, but you run onstage and grab a musket from one of the actors—’cause that’s what they used in Hamilton’s day—and you try to shoot it out, all cause you have the right to object!
And now because of your bullshit decision you have the right to an attorney. By the way, I heard that Hamilton is fucking amazing. I got to try to sneak in to see it one day, unless someone out there has a plus one.
WIFE INSURANCE
One thing to consider before you enter any sort of marital commitment is wife insurance. Now, before you get started on me, this is NOT a sexist concept. I’m not going to serve you some outdated cliché saying that in every divorce the woman wants to clean the man out. I know firsthand there are plenty of kick ass women out there who are either taking care of a bunch of kids all by themselves because some weak-minded man dipped out on them or, worse than that, have to dole out spousal support to some punk ass ex-husbands.
But the fact is, men are DISORGANIZED. When a woman gets a divorce, she has a backup plan. She has saved up money for a rainy day, maybe at Wells Fargo, maybe in the Cayman Islands—point is, she has a plan. She has already made a bid on her exciting new home or booked a long-term luxurious Airbnb with a Cuban pool boy included. Not to mention that smart ass woman has backup dicks stashed all over the state and in offshore locations. That’s how women handle their business. Men? Men get divorced with no plan and no money, and they wind up depressed in some old raggedy motel, or back home with their parents, or, worse yet, in the basement of their own damn house.
Imagine if these fuck-ups had a secret wife insurance policy waiting to pay them off so that they could enjoy their new single status in style. It would take into account all the needs a divorced man has. Shit like helping him find a new place to live—or maybe even a sexy, compassionate cougar with a PhD in psychology to help him deal with his devastating sense of loneliness and depression—would be covered. It would help that lonely, dumb ass man get over his trauma and issues so he could attract a better mate the next time around. And it would cover date coaching, weight-loss coaching, and, most important, erection coaching. A premium package would also cover sex costs for the first seven days, although for now that option would be available only in the state of Nevada.