In South Korea, you can actually hire a scary uncle to protect your kids against bullies who make their life difficult, reported All Kpop. The Uncle Service is a booming business in that country as more parents are utilizing this service to protect their kids from mean bullies.

The ‘Uncle Package’ is a service where a big, intimidating man in their 30s-40s pretends to be a student’s uncle. The ‘uncle’ will give a stern warning to the bullies, and accompany the student on their way to and back from school. The service is provided for 500,000 KRW (443 USD) per day.

For the ‘Evidence Package’, the uncle obtains evidence of bullying by filming the scene with mini cameras. The uncle will report the evidence to the school, and tell them, “I’ll submit an official complaint to the school board if you guys do not properly investigate the case. We want a clear resolution.” The ‘Evidence Package’ is provided for 400,000 KRW (354 USD). 

Lastly, the ‘Chaperone Package’ is where the ‘uncle’ visits the job sites of the bully’s parents. The ‘uncle’ will protest in front of their office buildings, and scream, “A parent of a bully works here.” The service is provided for 2 million KRW (1,800 USD) for a total of 4 visits. 

$1800/4 = 450 a day to get the parents have a 35 year old man stand in front of their job yelling how a parent of a bully works there?

Here’s a better alternative….teach your kids how to fight and they will know how to handle themselves confidently around a bully.

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I was very, very hot.
 
Now I’m 61.  I’m not hot.  I’ve had two babies.  I’ve been sleep deprived most of my life.  My hair is a mess (possible Asperger’s symptom).  I have never been married, legally.   Funny, because I used to wonder how all those girls around me were ever going to find husbands, looking like that.
 
In high school, someone started a rumor I was on the cover of Seventeen.  The freshman girls began to follow me around, giggling.  They were so excited.  This went on for months.  I could see them admiring me from across the cafeteria, or down the hall.  They’d stop, to worship.  At last, one nervously came up to ask me about it.  I told her: I was a model, but not in Seventeen.  
 
If my parents had had their acts together, I could have been.  But they were dysfunctional people.  
 
I was raised with the understanding that I was important because I was beautiful.  It was not just the most important thing.  It was the only important thing.
 
Being shy, I was never comfortable with “hot”.  Back then, I assumed it was normal to walk into a restaurant and everyone would stop eating.  I took it for granted this happens all the time.
 
Then it stopped.

At the same time, I was competitive — I needed to be the most beautiful woman in the room.  I wanted to crawl into a closet and escape if a more beautiful woman entered the same space.  I felt deprived.  I felt unappreciated.  I felt worthless.  I was nothing.
 
All based on my looks.
 
Men I did not know told me they were in love with me.  Once, when I was 18, during my short modeling career, I received fan mail from 1000 miles away — including a pro football player requesting for a date — asking for “pinups” and a letter.  It was unnerving.  I do not miss those weird communications.
 
Some men could not help themselves; they wrote me poems.  Their words were often beautiful.  But they didn’t know me at all.
 
Any conversation with the opposite sex took place on eggshells.  I prayed the chat would NOT end with a request for a date…. or an embrace.  I’d try to be nice.  But I knew it was coming.  In my head, at every smile, I’d plead:  Please don’t hate me when I turn you down.  I avoided the question.  I kindly rejected them.  I never, ever got good at that.  
 
So they hated me.  They’d be angry, they’d resent me, they’d be embarrassed, they’d need to prove that I was not good enough for them…  They turned rude and awful.
 
Needless to say, my looks and my desperate need not to upset men led to many a sexual harassment at work situation, which back then was not illegal.  
 
I was fired from a magazine by a man I would not date.  I didn’t flat out refuse.  Trying to be diplomatic, I simply replied that we should “all” go out to lunch together.  He saw right through this.  I don’t miss that part of being hot one bit.  He went ballistic.  Like I said, today, it would be illegal.
 
I moved to Park Slope in the mid-80s.  On a hot summer day I put on a pair of shorts and walked down the street.  To my right, a pickup truck went flying past me.  Then came the screech of breaks, the zoom of an engine racing backwards, and it stopped.  I didn’t look.  But I could hear them.  One yelled:
 
“OH!  MY!  GOD!” 

When the staring stopped, it was a relief in many ways.  
 
I no longer had to give a damn about what I wore.  No one is scrutinizing me for imperfection.  When a beautiful woman has a pimple, no one stops discussing it.
 
I AM imperfection.  I don’t have to prove to anyone anymore that I am more gorgeous than you.  
 
I stopped wearing makeup — what is the point at 61?  I still look much younger than my age, but I haven’t looked 30 since I was 45. 

It was easy to get younger men to work with me when I was “hot”.  It is now impossible.  I am great at what I do but getting a 20-something guy to work with me as a team is threatening — and frankly it creeps me out too, to call someone a “colleague” when I’m old enough to be their mother.  These young men are embarrassed to be seen talking to me now.  Needless to say, I eat lunch alone.  I am lonely.  Funny, that.
 
I remember sitting next to an otherwise lovable guy named Mark at a bar in Elaine’s in Manhattan ca. 1986.  At one point Mark asked me what I did for a living.  At the time I was a freelance writer.  
 
“Yeah?” he said, stifling a guffaw.  “Whadya write?  Romance novels?”

When I was hot, I could get out of anything.   
 
I sailed through a red light once and at the top of the hill, a policeman was waiting for me.  In my most adorably angry way, I got out of the car, put my hands on my hips, glared at him, and squeaked:  You’re just picking on me because I have an old car!”

He pointed out I’d just gone through a completely red light.  I pointed out right back:  “Well, if I had known you were here I would have stopped!” 

Admission of guilt.
 
No license.  No registration.  No insurance.  These were all home on my kitchen table.  
 
A crowd began to form.  The beautiful girl yelling at the cop. He reeled at them:  Whadyou lookin’ at!  Geddouda here!  Go!
 
In the back seat of the car was a New York Times, and a story with my byline.  This was what I used for identification — a newspaper with a byline.  
 
I was telling the truth.  But how the hell would he know?  
 
He tried not to smile.  But he couldn’t help it.  Finally he laughed, said some warm and friendly things to me as he drove off.
  
I would never get away with that today.  
 
I told that story to coworkers once and was met with blank stares — disbelief.  

It upsets me when people look at beautiful women and remark how stupid they are.  It’s a running joke.    
 
Beauty = idiocy in this country.
 
I am smart, educated, refined, socially terribly awkward — and not an idiot.  I am not hot and people respect me.  
 
I did not get that when I was gorgeous.  
 
I desperately wanted to be taken seriously.   It was hopeless.  No one could look like that and be heard except on paper.  
So I write.
 
One time I arrived for a midtown New York press conference.  I was sent to the “43rd floor”, a modeling agency.  I was late for the p.c.
 
Of course I miss those days sometimes.  
 
Days when men would hold the elevator for me and compete to pick up something I had just dropped.  
 
When they would stare at me as we passed on the escalator and remark to a friend next to them, “Gooooood MORNing!“
 
When a boss would have me go to a conference room to ask a wealthy client if he would like to order dinner, knowing the guy was not hungry, just to show me off?  
 
When a female coworker would suddenly hate me because her would-be paramour said something flattering about the way I looked, compared to her?
 
Yah.  I do.  I am invisible.  

What kind of steroids are professional bodybuilders using before a competition?

So what do top bodybuilder’s use and how much? I’ll tell you.

Just keep in mind that this is not a “how to” or a prescription, just an honest look at what’s really being used by pros. An actual cycle is very individual and should be changed according to individual needs.

16-Week Cycle: General Usage

1. Cut long esters at 6-8 weeks out and switch to short-acting compounds.
2. Increase anti-estrogens as the show get closer in order to get harder and dryer. This is where a lot of people fail because of lack of knowledge on the subject.
3. Testosterone should be cut anywhere between 2-4 weeks out. Some people can get away with going all the way to the show but it really depends on the person. If they’re going for a very hard and dry look, then likely they’ll cut it earlier.
4. Make sure supplementation is on target during the cycle to protect your health. I use liver support supplements, Flameout, Curcumin, etc.
5. Simplicity is the key; a cycle doesn’t need to be fancy. If a bodybuilder is not advanced or experienced – and most who think they are actually aren’t! – he should go with a lower dosage.

16-Week Sample Cycle: Moderate to High Dosage

This is an example of a common pro-bodybuilder cycle. It’s something I’ve done before and I do not recommend this for anyone!

1-10 Testosterone Enanthate, 750mg a week (1000-1200mg advanced)
1-10 EQ, 800mg a week (1000mg advanced)
1-10 Tren E, 600mg/week (800mg advanced)
1-8  D-Bol, 50mg every day (up to 100mg advanced)
10-16 100mg Testosterone prop EOD (100mg ED advanced)
10-16 100mg Trenbolone Acetate EOD (75-100mg ED advanced)
10-16 100mg Masteron propionate EOD (100mg ED advanced)
10-16 50mg Winstrol or Anavar ED (sometime I do both)
8-16 Start T3 at 25mcg ED and taper up as needed.
12-16 Halotestin, start at 20mg ED and increase by 10mg every week (not a good choice for those who aren’t mentally strong.)

Pharmaceutical GH 6-12 IU ED for the whole cycle (If people can afford more then the sky is the limit. I know guys who’ve gone up to 30 IU but this is rare.)

Insulin For advanced lifters only! 5-10 IU pre-workout followed by drinking Plazma right away. This is a moderate dosage, a lot of guys are using much more.

When to cut insulin is very individual and depends on conditioning, water retention and the amount of carbs the bodybuilder is eating. It could be run straight through or cut out in the weeks prior to the show and possibly reintroduced later on.

Clenbuterol is on option starting at 6-8 weeks out. Most start low, 20-40mcg.

Anti-Estrogens

Nolvadex (Tamoxifen): 20mg ED for the whole cycle, taper up if needed starting at 6 weeks out.

Arimidex for the whole cycle starting at 1mg EOD and taper up as needed from 6 weeks out.

Provironstarting at 8 weeks out at 25mg ED and taper up as the show gets closer, up to 100mg ED.

What’s it like to be a financial dominatrix?

One night, surfing Tumblr, I came across a dominatrix’s blog. I found myself really attracted to what I was reading. I thought, What would it be like to walk into a party and answer that dreaded, anxiety-filled question, “What do you do?” with the response, “I’m a professional dominatrix.”

I wasn’t ready for a dungeon, and wasn’t sure about human interaction at all. But I saw that some fin-dommes don’t even meet their pay-pigs — or human ATMs — or slaves — whatever you want to call them. So I told my boyfriend, and he was very encouraging. He’s all about going against the grain.

The first step was joining Fetlife and Collarme, websites catering to the BDSM community. They’re social networking sites with options for specific kinks. I joined all the groups related to fin-dommes. I had to create a persona. You can’t be struggling or desperate. The subs want a woman who likes to splurge, who likes bags and shoes. You need to be bossy, demand to be spoiled. So I uploaded pictures and wrote a bratty profile like, “Guess what? You work so hard on making all this money, and now I’m taking it! Just like that. How does that make you feel?”

Suddenly I had extremely wealthy, successful figures getting in touch with me. They feel enslaved by their companies; they’ve spent their whole lives making money for other people. They want to release that.

Initially, I make them fill out an application. Then I tell them to send me a “tribute,” to know that they’re serious. That’s done through PayPal or GreenDot MoneyPak. I also have a registry and a P.O. box. My wish list ranges from a memory foam mattress to a Chanel clutch. The first pig I ever had sent me a $500 Amazon card. When it arrived, I was like, “Holy shit, this is real, this is real, holy shit.” I was so giddy! My world had opened up.

Another sub wrote, “Goddess Nia, you’re a perfect 10. I want to be your pay pig.” I said, “Did I ask you to rate me on some misogynist scale? Fuck you. I want you to send me a tribute, and I want you send it in all ten-dollar bills, since I’m such a perfect ten. And I want it to be $1000.” He did it.

The first time I met a sub in person was at the Standard Grill, right around the corner was the Apple store in the meatpacking district. I said, “Before you speak, we’re going to the Apple store around the corner.” Right then and there, he bought me a new iPad with all the accessories. One sub took me to Burberry on 57th Street and bought me a trench coat, while I was all bratty about it.

Emasculation. Sissy-fication. People put in their credit-card information and call me just to have me answer and ignore them. I’ll run errands and neglect them on the phone all day.

After six months of hard work and a lot of mind-blowing propositions — from covering my rent for a year to paying to watch me eat cake and listen to my stomach digest food — I have three main pigs.

Sub-Chef is a super-successful restaurateur. He’s the only one who’s ever crossed the line sexually, because he confessed to masturbating to me. So I put his cock in a cage. Now he’s inside a chastity belt and can only masturbate one week out of the month, and that’s only if he can answer my trivia questions. Isn’t it crazy? This famous chef is walking around in a cock cage. When he failed a quiz about Arrested Development, I ordered him to write 2,000 words on the meaning of obedience and wouldn’t unlock the cage. I went to one of his restaurants and said, “My moules frites are subpar; you have to personally remake them now.” Meanwhile, the key to his cock cage is around my neck, and the waitress is watching from the corner.

Tiny Tim works in investment banking. I made him wear an anal plug to a major presentation. I watched him insert it on Skype, and he couldn’t take it out until I ordered him to.

Then there’s Guinea Pig. I literally take care of all his finances; I give him an allowance. I let him pay his rent, buy his necessities, and then I spend the rest.

I make somewhere between $3,000 and $5,000 each month. Most of it goes to student loans. One Goddess I know makes a million a year, and she was just gifted a Mercedes. But those women have been doing it forever and actually have a sexual connection. There’s nothing sexual in it for me. I’ve never been with any of them physically.

I’m rewarded in other ways. It’s therapeutic for these guys, and in a strange way, I care about them. The power that money has over these men — the fear they have over losing everything — they’re trapped by it. This is a way of getting treatment. My subs say, “I love you Goddess; I’m so in love with you, Goddess.” My answer to them is always: Good. Good job.

Someone once said, “I will pay to be your human toilet, because I feel lower than shit. Will you defecate in my mouth?” I said no. I have boundaries. Like, I won’t get into blackmailing, threatening to call someone’s wife if he doesn’t pay up. The idea of ruining a marriage is too fucked up for me, but men actually sign contracts giving fin-dommes permission to do this. The adrenaline they get over a complete loss of control — having no power over body, mind, wallet, or privacy — is the ultimate rush.

Another personal rule is I won’t bankrupt anybody. I only deal with wealthy people. Guinea Pig only makes $400,000 a year, but Sub-Chef makes more than a million.

When I first started, I wanted the money and excitement. Now I’m kind of hooked. I’ll make at least $60,000 this year, and there’s so much freedom. Not many people know about it. My family thinks I’m a nanny, and my roommates probably think I’m a shopping-addicted call girl or something. I don’t care.

My boyfriend worries that being a financial dominatrix is changing me. I come from no money — my family struggled. Now I love nice things: comfort, art, beauty, feeling good. It’s nice to feel worthy of luxury. I won’t apologize for that.

People consider being a domme sex work. And it is. There’s a certain release I’m offering, and I’m fine with that, even though nothing about this job is sexual for me. I never feel dirty. I feel fucking awesome. I’m so over placing the struggling artist on a pedestal. And I’m not hurting anyone. Well, not really.

What’s it like to be gay and in prison?

It depends on the man himself.

In CCA there was an openly gay Hispanic fellow, who I don’t believe spoke any English. The Hispanic guys doted on him. He was treated by a number of men the way you might expect they would treat a girlfriend. I saw his admirers bring him little gifts, candy purchased on commissary, the milk from their breakfast… They would save him a seat close to the TV, and made sure his laundry was tended to.

The Hispanic fellow liked to stand on the upstairs balcony where he had a direct view into the showers… Most of us thought it was funny. He seemed to think nobody noticed. There was a female guard, a petite brunette in her early twenties who did the same thing. There were a few guys who liked an audience and would make sure the merchandise was on display. I think the same guys performed for the woman and the fellow.

In federal prison we had Gay Dave, a tiny man who looked like he could’ve been a model if he could feign a little more of the machismo that magazines seem to like. He loved the attention he got and seemed to play it up. I remember saying something to him about the prison-issue blankets. His reply, in a lilting voice was, “Now, I forget… Sheet or blanket, which one goes on top?” I walked away thinking, “Can he really be that dumb?”

Oh. Duh. I got it later. I was the dumb one.

Big Gay Ken was completely different (bet you thought I was going to say Big Gay Al). Extremely bright, Ken had the most caustic wit I’ve ever encountered. He was large featured, loud, and extremely heavy. His wit was used defensively against everyone, even those he might call friends. It was entertaining in short bursts, but draining over the long haul. The dirty white boys loved to hate Ken. I suspect they were jealous of how he could verbally shrink anybody, and was never afraid to. They called him The Kangaroo because his stomach, devoid of any muscle, drooped down between his legs while he sat (and he sat a lot) . It seemed to remind them of a marsupial’s pouch. Ken, bright as he was, never got it. “Kangaroo? What the fuck is THAT supposed to mean?!” he’d shout for the entire unit to hear. I say shout, but that was Ken’s normal conversational level.

We had a gay doctor. A wonderful man who was so much fun to listen to… He often taught health classes and had everyone’s respect as far as I could tell. I’d often see men come to ask him his opinion on their health concerns at chow hall. He was always smiling and helpful. He’d make sure you knew what the medical department was *supposed* to do for you.

Finally there was “Pocahontas.” She was feminine in every way that she could be, save one. Every gesture, from her walk, to the way she moved her head were those of a woman. She wore little bits of jewelry made in prison, and paid far more attention to her clothes than most. She grew her hair out as long as she could, but male pattern baldness doesn’t care how comfortable you are in your body and it will thin whatever you have. Almost everyone gave Pocahontas a wide berth.

The openly gay guys were just people like everyone else, some with more virtues than faults, some the other way around. Their individual experiences were pretty much what their personalities created.

– Jim Christmas, Four years behind bars for another man’s crime.

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 A Dolphin Left Alone In A Abandoned Marine Park In Japan

700-Pound Man Dies After Removed From Chair

Here’s What Happens After an Elephant Dies

Making $35,000 Bonsai Scissors

I Was Almost A School Shooter

4 Levels of Chocolate Chip Cookies: Amateur to Food Scientist 

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Fascinating article about the best Fortnite player in the world, Ninja – ESPN

See how much the top eSports teams, athletes, and their organizations make – Business Insider

100 most important books of the 2000s … so far – Vulture

How To Feel Amazing Before 8AM – Benjamin Hardy

3 Tips to Have Better Conversations – NY Times

Sitting on the toilet will never be the same, this is the ultimate toilet seat upgrade! – Amazon

Take a peak inside the awesome VIP lounge – Man Of Many 

What All Your Girlfriend’s Friends Know About Your Dick – Mel Magazine

Almost half of US cellphone calls will be scams by next year, says report – CNET

Study: people tend to cluster into four distinct personality “types”- ARS Technica

How to Live Better, According to Nietzsche – The Atlantic

California surgeon, woman accused of rape, preyed on upwards of 1,000 women
– ABC

Lab-Grown Meat: Meat produced without killing animals is heading to your dinner table – Scientific American

North Korea’s Kim Jong-un agrees to shut missile site – BBC

How Much Money You Take Home On A $100,000 Salary In Different US Cities, Mapped – Digg

Remember the Delightful Messenger-Only Gadgets That Failed to Conquer the World? – Gizmodo

4 Cognitive Biases That Cloud Your Judgment – Curiousity

5 Toxic Habits to Give up If You Want to Be Successful – Goalcast

Our Backs Hurt Just From Watching Donald Trump Jr.’s Deadlift Video – Men’s Health

5 Types of Friends Every Man Needs – The Art of Manliness

What on Earth Makes a $1,200 Graphics Card Worth It? – The Verge

Victoria Justice Bikini of the Day – Drunken Stepfafther

What It’s Like to Fall in Love Inside a Video Game – VICE

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Instagram

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When you’re at the club and your girl texts you "I miss you, come home" with three attachments

When I’m beating my friend at Madden and he starts reaching into his bag

When I accidentally open Internet Explorer instead of Chrome

When the bus starts moving before you sit down

When I ate too many brownies and an hour later it hits me

When I’m enjoying my Sunday but remember there’s work tomorrow

When I hear a sound and realize it’s my dog chewing on something

When someone turns on their blinker before they start to slow down for a turn

When I perfectly threw a crumpled up piece of paper into the trashcan on the other side of the room with all of my co-workers watching me

When your girl is drunk and she remembers you dated other girls before you met her

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Y’all taking this too far now… @KodakBlack @Whartonberg #WSHH

A post shared by WorldStar Hip Hop // WSHH (@worldstar) on Sep 18, 2018 at 9:40am PDT

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The line of mopes wraps around the warehouse hidden in the Valley’s North Hollywood. It moves, I take a step. These men are not the chiseled, two-hundred pound studs with eight-inch-plus penises of the A-list. They will never get the call to work with even passable looking woman in a scene for a mid-tier studio, and they know it. This is the bukkake line.

Sure, I’m in line just like these mopes are, but I’m different. I’ve done scenes for top tier studios already. Christ, look at these guys, then look at me. I’m not like them. Even my shirt, the sample I modeled in the Krizia Uomo show in Milan two Springs ago, may be old but it’s a tangible link to what I’ve done. Proof of who I was. More than these mopes will ever accomplish in ten lifetimes.

Conversations include: a group scene where one mope brags about actually getting to fuck the girl for a solid minute before another mope tapped him on the shoulder to swap out; another man boasts of his one-on-one scene with a used up, twenty-year porn veteran, milf that he managed to not fuck up, which he proclaims, “We had a connection!”; to the porn parties they lie about being invited to.

The line moves. I take a step.

Directors for other bukkakes and group scenes (most not any better off than the mopes) rove up and down the bukkake line handing out business cards. One director poaches talent for a fifteen-on-one scene with a burly and pregnant woman that’s shooting down the street in an hour. The man front of me is swallowed by the building. I follow.

Inside the processing room we’re tagged and packed like cattle along an assembly line. I fill out the release and show my HIV/STD test to a production assistant that doesn’t even glance at it. Next, I hold my IDs next to my face and another P.A. takes a snapshot with a digital camera.

The line moves. I take a step.

The next P.A. keeps the beef line moving and into the killing floor. He tells me to be quiet as I enter because the filming has started. Through the doors I hear it. Panting. Snortling. Not unlike a kennel of English bulldogs. I enter the room.

Take a step.

The first thing you notice in the main room is: the line has congealed into a clump of man asses. They sag, and drag. Some pinch together, others hang down, flapping against the backs of legs. Hair covers some, puss drips from sores on another. Probably one hundred have packed in before you; you hurry to the side to strip your clothes to make room for the men that pile in behind you. The brightness of the lights is obscene and it’s cold like a meat locker–your breath hangs in the air in front of you, and the hairs on your legs and forearms stand erect. You pick an unoccupied spot on the floor for your clothes, and your bag, then walk to the crowd.

Take a step.

The other men are naked except for their shoes. The mob surrounding the girls (the rumor is there are actually two girls) has to be ten men deep because even though you’re taller than the average mope you can’t see the center. You hear, though. What you hear is squishy, wet, two-inch cocks jerking off in unison, like a thousand teens smacking chewing gum. With the sheer volume of men in the room the sound echoes off the walls. Punctuating this sound is the frequent moaning of your fellow man ass-mates at the front of the line as they dump their loads, followed by gargling.

Take a step.

Naked, you take your place in the pack, and no sooner than you do this does the trickle of new arrivals fill in around you; the group absorbs you into its mass. Inch by inch, the current moves you closer and closer to the front. Still, nothing is visible. Just the occasional cheap phone sex voices:

“Ooooohh yeah baaaaybeee. Gimmie that hot load, you stud!”
Another woman’s voice says, “Yeah, I’m soooo horny!”

Take a step.

Now you’re now at the middle ranks of the Man Ass Organism and are absorbed into it as yet more naked men pack in behind you. You’re trying to stroke your cock up to an erection with the only spit in your hand for lube, shoulder to hairy shoulder, surrounded by hundreds of strangers, and it’s harder and harder to breathe because there are no windows in this room and the used-up air that enters your mouth has exited the lungs of scores of other men. You taste the staleness.

Take a step.

When you are closer to what you think is the front, the odor invades your nose and there’s no way to escape it. Hygiene is not a big priority for some of these guys, but you’ve been around unwashed people before. No, that’s not it. It’s too acrid and burning to be just body odor. You look straight ahead because heaven forbid if you look down you see that you’re stroking your cock millimeters from some hairy, saggy ass. This gives you an acute awareness of the fact that there is some dude pulling his pud directly behind your ass at this very moment. His breath blows warm on your nape. Is he looking down at your cheeks as he strokes?

Take a step.

The Man Ass Organism spits you out to the front of the line the way an amoeba excretes waste through its membrane. There they are. Two girls, on their knees, caked from head-to-toe in the multi-shaded come of a hundred men. Drenched baby bibs are tied to their necks. Faces covered, you can distinguish them only by their breast size. The studio lights above them heat the jizz on their foreheads, creating swirling spunk currents the way a lava lamp would, solving the mystery of the stench. Both women’s breasts have space on the undersides where the semen dried to a crust–crackling, and splitting, and flaking when a tit moves.

Two men stand ahead of you in line. An unseen, megaphone amplified voice screeches over the ambient din, “You two! Snowball! Go, go, go!”

The two men take their steps.

A dripping slot opens just above Big Tits Girl’s chin that can only be a mouth. She sucks one man, and Small Tits Girl sucks off the other. Gooey hands grasp at the men’s doughy asses for leverage as the girls shove mope dicks into their faces. Big Tit’s man pumps her face and after ten seconds, convulses, howls, then slathers his load into her mouth and onto her face. She swishes spooze around her mouth and teeth the way you’d rinse with Listerine. The second man shoots his load into Small Tits Girl’s mouth. Both girls gargle their ejaculate in unison as the men step away and are re-absorbed into the crowd. Small Tits leans over, places her head in the Big Tits’s lap, and opens her mouth like a hungry baby bird. Big tits then purses her lips. Come mixed with spittle, phlegm, and yet more come drips from Big Tit’s mouth in long strings, and into Small Tit’s mouth. Small Tits sits up, kisses Big Tits, and the women snowball the loads back and forth, fingering their pussies all the while. The opaque liquid, now well mixed, drizzles down their chins and onto their tits, and the floor. This is when you see for the first time that the girls are kneeling in a pool of semen and it’s clear why the other men are wearing shoes. You recall among the gossip in the line, one story was about some shoeless man at a previous bukkake that slipped and fell into the primordial ejaculate pool.

Eye-spots surrounded by semen lock in on you, and a soaked princess beckons you over. The megaphone screams, “Go!”

You take a step. When your foot lands, it squishes deep into what feels like warm hair conditioner. Your foot sinks and the gelatine goo oozes hot between your toes. When you lift your foot the sticky floor doesn’t want to let it go. You stand in front of the girls, cock in hand, no erection. The Big Tits Come Princess scoops spilled seed from the floor and feeds it to Small Tits Girl, whom sucks her friend’s finders dry. She smiles at you, blowing come-bubbles. Your stomach flips inside out, and your breathing comes shallow, and it feels as though your bones have been sucked out of your legs. You sway.

The megaphone shrieks, “Stop! Half-time show!”

The director’s minions–dressed in rain coats, hats, fly-fishing boots and gardening gloves–cattle prod their way through the crowd carrying an industrial strength blow dryer. The appliances roar to life and the minions glaze the women’s faces with the come, glazing them like pottery. Fresh broiled spunk wafts into your nasal cavity. You look around and see the dead eyes of the Organism reflecting your feelings back at you; the Beast Of One Hundred Penises is looking through you to the girls, stroking away. Moaning and the sound of smack-smack-smack–

Enough!

You push your way through the Organism, not caring that you graze past someone’s loose genitals in your haste, which is good because as you rush, greasy penises brush against your wrist and your hips.

Once in the back, clear of the Organism, your body doubles over, resting your hands on your knees, sucking in air until the roof of your mouth tingles and your pulse throbs in your eardrums, and you get the tell-tale tunnel vision from hyperventilating.

Your pants are in your hands but you remember there’s not enough bus fare in the pockets to get you out of the Valley, let alone get something to eat, and you still have a week to go until you might get paid for the three-on-one you did last week–assuming the check clears. Your gut, heaving a moment ago, now bellows to be filled. You take a step. To the back of the Organism.

The moaning mass of flesh wraps itself around you once again. You step, wait, and step again until the Organism shits you out once more. There is only one Come Princess, now. She rests upside down on the back of her neck and shoulders. Legs open, speculum prying her vagina open. The guy ahead of you drops his load down the pried open vagina. You’re up.

A gas masked minion squirts cheap lube into your hand from an industrial sized drum. You close your eyes and go through your wank bank of images in your head to get you cock hard. You stroke, thinking of that sweet smelling bank teller with the low cut blouse who took your deposit, and this jars you from the fantasy because you remember that you have to give the inverted snatch in front of you her deposit. You keep stroking but your curiosity nags at you to peek, but you’re so close to coming and don’t want blow it, but your eyes have minds of their own. You peek. Her clamped open cunt is infinite, raw, and teeming with mottled, bubbling spunk. Still clutching your penis, your eyes roll back and the floor comes up on you hard and fast.

When your eyes open, you’re at the back of the crowd, next to the pile of clothes, semen stuck between the webbing of your fingers, a tightening feel of crust drying on the left side of your face and lips. You lick your lips and are rewarded with a bitter-salt taste on the tip of your tongue.

Your feet kick away a pair of skid-marked tighty whiteys to get to your socks, but fuck it, do you really want to put them on again? You’ve got one pant leg on when you stop and look to the dried sperm crusting on your feet. Your shirt, the one you got paid $1,500 to wear down the runway in Milan, is missing. Scanning the back of the room, you spot it. A mope is using it as a come rag. You struggle to control yourself from weeping and manage long enough to sling your bag over your shoulder and walk.

As you are leaving a minion stops you. He says, “Don’t forget your cash.”

He hands you fifty bucks, a baby wipe for your face, and a t-shirt that says:

“I Got Cummed On and Left For Dead In A Bukkake And All I Got Was This Stupid T-shirt.”

The minion says, “Can you come back to do the Gangsta-Land Come Slam next week? There will only be ten of you, you actually get to fuck the girl, and the pay is $150.”

At first you think he doesn’t know you’ve failed, but then you realize he doesn’t care. You’re walking corpse, there to make the set look full. As a mope, nothing you ever do will matter.

– Tyler Knight

If you enjoyed Tyler’s writing, definitely check out his book Burn My Shadow: A Selected Memory Of An X-Rated Life

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Probably the best depiction of what it was like to go over the top in WW1

600lb Woman Shops for Food in a Wheelchair 

What COPS Keep In Their TRUNKS!!

Pro Bodybuilders reveal the ‘chemical warfare’ of competing in bodybuilding tournaments

My Dead Dad’s Porno Tapes (Narrated by David Wain)

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The 74 Essential Things Every Man Must Do to Fully Experience Life Before He Dies – Knowledge For Men

This $14 Fountain Pen Writes Better Than A $400 Montblanc – Amazon

A List Of 8 Core Values I Live By – Darious Foroux

Creating Disneyland Was Like Building a Brand New City – Atlas Obscura

How To Create Next Level Wealth: When A Million Just Won’t Cut It – Financial Samurai

‘I had a sexual relationship with a dolphin’ – NY Post

The Easiest and Best Online Banks – The Weekly Cut

What Is Pegging? This Sex Act Is On the Rise Among Straight Men – Mens Health

Colombia’s cocaine production hit an all time high last year and the US remains the worlds largest consumer, proving once again the war on drugs has failed – BBC

Why Jeff Bezos schedules all of his ‘high IQ’ meetings between 10 a.m. and noon – Ladders

The Straight Men Who Want Nothing to Do With Women – Mel Magazine

This is the toothbrush subscription service everyone is talking about – Quip

It’s Official: Jordan Peele Will Host His Twilight Zone Reboot – i09

This $20 cushion will dramatically reduce back pain and sciatica. Put it on your office chair, your car seat or wherever you sit for prolonged periods of time – Amazon

Batman’s Nude Penis Launches DC’s Mature Comic Line – Screenrant

Huge marijuana bundles are washing up on Florida beaches after hurricane Florence, and swimmers are fighting over them – National Post

Failed Attempt to Put Dead Whale in Dumpster ‘Was a Mistake’ – NBC

FanDuel not honoring bet that would have paid more than $82,000 due to line error – ESPN

San Francisco residents pleading with thieves to spare their vehicles – ABC

Possibly Brie Larson’s Hottest Newd Pics of the Day – Drunken Stepfather

Meet Roland, Japan’s Most Successful Male Geisha – Oddity Central

Keilah Kang’s hottest photos, ulimate compilation (nsfw) – Celeb J

What does math look like to mathematicians? – Popular Science

Ashley Benson, Victoria Justice and Other Random Women – G-Celeb

World’s worst pedo Peter Scully who filmed baby rapes, tortured kids and made them dig their own graves smirks at life in jail – The Sun

George Clooney Once Gave His 14 Best Friends $1 Million Each – Maxim

The Dutch East India Company was worth $7.9 Trillion at its peak – more than 20 of the largest companies today – Visual Capitalist

8 Books That Elon Musk Says Changed His Life – Daily Curiosity

Do you ever see a super-old, super-rich guy out on the town with a super-young girl who’s super out of his league and wonder, how the hell did that happen? This is how it happened – GQ

How To Become The Toughest Man Alive – Medium

Every Episode of Black Mirror, Ranked From Worst to Best – Vulture

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Played this game my whole childhood and now, at 35 yo, I find out Mario can do this

This is how I see my retirement

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“Generally speaking, you’re free until you’re about 4 years old. Then you go to grammar school and then you start becoming…oriented and shoved into areas. You lose what individualism you have. If you have enough of course, you retain some of it… Then you work the 8 hour job with almost a feeling of goodness, like you’re doing something. Then you get married like marriage is a victory, and you have children like children is a victory… Marriage, birth, children. It’s something they have to do because there’s nothing else to do. There’s no glory in it, there’s no steam, there’s no fire. It’s very, very flat… You get caught into the structure of what you’re supposed to be and you have no other choice. You’re finally molded and melded into what you’re supposed to be. I didn’t like this.”

– Charles Bukowski.

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Ruby is 1 of 12 people in the world diagnosed with Stromme syndrome. She hopes that those who get to meet her take a moment to say “hi.”

Love knows no age

These heroes rushed in and risked their lives to save animals after Hurricane Florence

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A post shared by The Dodo (@thedodo) on Sep 18, 2018 at 5:55pm PDT

Stick to Fortnight kid 

This guy made a game to propose to his girlfriend 

Every year, Lakeview Park in Nampa, Idaho, holds a “Pooch Pool Party” day where all dogs are invited to enjoy the public water park before it closes

Best of friends

Blind cat keeps his beloved human company during her radiation treatment for lung cancer

“Donny is a blind cat who has been dutifully cared for by his grandma until she was diagnosed with lung cancer several months ago. After numerous tests it was determined that at 88 she was not a candidate for surgery. The doctors decided they were going to give her 5 radiation treatments and send her to hospice care. Donny visited with her and kept her company during her treatments and unbelievably, the radiation was working! Donny’s grandma was given 12 more treatments and earlier this month, she was determined to be cancer free and sent home from the hospital. Goes to show the healing power of a blind cat’s love.”

Dog Can’t Decide Who He Missed More When Owners Return From Weekend Trip

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A post shared by 𝚃𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚙! (@tatertot_thecorgi_) on Sep 18, 2018 at 9:17am PDT

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Dumbass didn’t want to get towed

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The first plant to become a venus fly trap

Crazy environmentalists mourn dead trees

Male feminists apologizes to women

First Person To Run A Marathon Without Talking About It

Here’s Why the Pagani Huayra Is Worth $3 Million

The post The Dumping Grounds appeared first on Caveman Circus.

Men Are Spending $200K and Enduring the Worst Pain Imaginable to Grow Three Inches – Mel Magazine

Indiana man, 34, who impregnated 10-year-old girl, gets over 100 years in prison – Fox News

How To Cut Your Cords And Save Money, While Still Keeping Your Channels – Amazon

What Ecstasy Does to Octopuses – The Atlantic

The Trick To Thinking Clearer and Better – Medium

157 corpses discovered in truck in Mexico – AOL

Disturbing vid shows father-son gun down their neighbor during dispute over trash – Instagram

How to Become More Resilient In The Face Of Obstacles – Goop

China is building a digital dictatorship to exert control over its 1.4 billion citizens. For some, “social credit” will bring privileges — for others, punishment – ABC

Ashley Graham curvy body in a swimsuit – Sports Gossip

Hot Twins Ask Regular Guys To Have A Threesome – Leenks

‘Snitching’ clause led to UFC star Jon Jones’ significantly reduced USADA suspension – Bloody Elbow

Social Aggression vs Asocial Violence: Why Knowing the Difference Can Save Your Life – The Art Of Manliness

English Man Gets Bionic Penis, Loses Virginity at 45 – TMZ

This nifty contraption helps you take dramtically better photos of yourself – Amazon

Relationship experts say one of the most dangerous beliefs about marriage is that you’re supposed to make your spouse happy – Business Insider

Not sure why everyone is celebrating a mobribdly obese model’s body positivity – Instagram

16 Astounding Facts About Japan That Prove a Parallel Universe Does Exist – Bright Side

How to negotiate a raise you deserve (in 3 months) – I Will Teach You To Be Rich

Top 10 Difficult Decisions You’ll Make in Life (and How to Make Them) – Life Hacker

4 Cosmetic Fixes That Can Make You Significantly More Attractive To Women – Return Of Kings

Black Sabbath’s 1972 cocaine budget: $75,000 – Dangerous Minds

What Instagram Girls Do When Invited to Hang With Rich Dudes of the Day – Drunken Stepfather

A look at the shady figures linked to UFC champ Khabib Nurmagomedov – Bloody Elbow

Meet LA Insta Model Alexis Clark – G-Celeb

This Anime Trailer For ‘Star Wars: A New Hope’ Is Honestly The Best Thing We’ve Seen In Months – YouTube

Instagram Model Hilde Osland Is Unreal – Hollywood Tuna

How to eat dim sum like an expert – The Takeout

SeaWorld Admits To Giving Orcas Anti-Anxiety Drugs – The Dodo

Study finds Americans who join ISIS are disappointed by the experience – AL

Smoking hot latina takes a damn fine selfie – Ehowa

Meet the Men Who Have a Fart Fetish – VICE

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