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You truly are a joyless bastard. If you were a community well and creativity was water, the entire town that depended on you would die of dehydration. Your idea of an exotic vacation is Disney’s Animal Kingdom. Rafiki’s Tree of Life really is something, huh? You’re the actor at an awards show who’s just happy to be there. It’s an honor that anyone of the female population would even consider letting you stick your little disco stick inside.
It’s clearly the only position you’ve ever done, because otherwise, it wouldn’t be your favorite. Missionary is essentially the hand job of sex positions. Much like how high school basketball players spend a year in college before entering the NBA draft, missionary is a necessary stepping stone in your sexual development that you should spend as little time as possible doing.
You’re the type of guy who was born with a silver spoon shoved up his ass, and you were probably breast fed well after your third birthday. It’s actually impressive that you’ve made it this far in life being solely dependent on others. Even the simplest of tasks, such as cooking a meal or doing laundry, become complicated projects when left on your own. You can’t put a suit jacket in the fucking washer, idiot.
Though, it’s not your fault you’ve been rendered completely useless. You’ve skated by on your above average looks and a touch of charisma your entire life, so why change in the bedroom? All the benefits with virtually zero work — yeah, you might just have this whole thing figured out. That, or every girl is deathly afraid to have your fat fucking ass on top.
People have thrown the white athlete clichés like “blue collar,” “gritty,” and the tried and true “lunch pail kind of guy” your way more times than you can count — granted, math was never your strong suit. You throw on your hardhat, clock in at nine, bust your ass, never mumble a single complaint, and clock out when the job’s finished.
You blow off stress and shoot the shit with your boys at happy hour by pounding down some brews before heading home to the wifey. She always complains about you not being “emotionally available” or that you “just don’t care,” and she’s not entirely wrong. You try to cover your ass by picking up the occasional bouquet of flowers or a box of chocolates so you don’t have to listen to her bitch about her day. The game is on, for fuck’s sake — quiet down, woman.
Yes, you’re a man of simple taste (dat ass) and you are far from a glamorous existence, but you live a respectable, honorable life by doing your part to contribute, and you always offer up a helping hand. Not to mention, you’re constantly bent over and violated by “the man,” so you’re more than happy to return the favor on his daughter.
You’re nothing short of a fucking psychopath who is filled to the brim with insecurities. You suffer from a crippling superiority obsession that is both unhealthy and unsafe for you and the people around you. You’re the reason the phrase “it’s just a game” exists in the English lexicon. You’re legitimately put on suicide watch whenever you take a cheat day from the gym.
As a child, you were part of the popular kids, and you strictly played the role of the jester, considering you’d whore yourself out doing anything for your peers’ undying approval. Remember that buffalo chip you ate in fifth grade? That was a turd. You forgot this because you repressed that situation, as well as the majority of your childhood memories from home. Your parents were cold, distant, and you can count on one hand the amount of times your dad was sober. It’s because of this upbringing that pleasing yourself is simply just not enough. You have to make an impression, so that’s why you completely suspend some broad into the air. Joe fucking Schmo ain’t fucking her anything like this.
You finally get that approval and gain a reputation of being a master in the sack, but a new problem has arisen: you have to constantly live up to this hype. All of a sudden, one of life’s ultimate pleasures has become a chore for you.
You miserable prick. How much fucking porn did you watch to get to this pathetic point? You’re much like the Guilty Remnant from The Leftovers. You creepily stumble around, saying little to no words, and you exist in the most insignificant manner possible. Food loses its taste, you can’t recall the last time you cracked a smile, and you burn heaters with the sole purpose of expediting the end of your minuscule life.
You could only be less of a man if you hacked off your limp dick — then you’d finally have a legitimate excuse to be the shameless spectator you are.
You regularly trip your balls off on bath salts, and you were definitely a giant Rob Van Dam fan as a kid. You commemorate his importance in your life by Five-Star Frog Splashing bitches. You’re the definition of a wild card, leaving others completely on edge whenever you’re around. You’re unemployed, without a vehicle, and you live with two strange Armenian dudes you’ve shared all of five words with since moving in…three years ago.
Despite all of these flaws, women, for one reason or another, gravitate to your general direction and that’s when you climb the top rope. Your dick is an utter anomaly, seemingly indestructible. Seriously, how haven’t you snapped your fully-torqued chub in half yet?
It’s hard out there for a player looking for love..