But I doubt that you’re familiar with TM's forgotten cousin: Transcendental Masturbation. Three years ago I ran into a yogi named Sharanananda. He taught me the lost art of Transcendental Masturbation, and I’ve been hooked ever since.

In the West, the metaphysical qualities of masturbation are either denied or rejected. Masturbation is usually not talked about and it is often a source of shame.

It wasn't like that at all with the ancient Yogis. Many centuries ago, the art of Transcendental Masturbation was practiced widely, rigorously, enthusiastically and competitively.
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NOTE: It took me 20 years to come up with the following patented formula. GQ magazine bought the rights to the full story, below is a short version.

So you're a stupid, fat and/or ugly guy. You think that you're limited to stupid, fat and/or ugly women. I'm here to tell you that it doesn't have to be that way.

First of all, you’re going to have to ignore your physical and mental shortcomings if you ever expect her to. And if you’re a nice guy like me, you’re going to have to change that.

Face it, a lot of attractive women tend to date and marry assholes. Learning to be one is the first step toward a fulfilling relationship with an attractive woman.

When you see a beautiful woman you’d like to ask out, the best approach is to utilize careful criticism. Instead of ogling at her like other men, slice and dice her self-esteem by citing fictitious physical flaws.
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People call me a crack snob but I only smoke crack if it’s fresh. If I get stale crack, I take it back. I don't take no smack. Unless the man's out of crack. Then I gotta get wack. Stick it in and lay back.

But seriously, you have to really look at the crack when you buy it. Smell it. Lick it. It’s a lot like picking the right honeydew melon, knowing when it’s ripe, juicy and sweet. I love inspecting fresh crack.

I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me—I’m not a crackhead. I’m a social crack smoker.
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I don’t ask for much in life. I have a home. I have a car. I have food. And I have water. All I really want is a bottle of fine Chinese wine. Sure, I’ve tried wines from around the world, but nothing compares to a fine Chinese wine…especially if it’s aged about 5 years.

You see, other wines don’t offer that subtle hint of anti-freeze, that slight touch of lead that smoothly caresses your palate —finished by a warm brake fluid aftertaste. Once you try, say, a 2002 Changsha-Nanchang Chardonnay, it’s hard to go back to wines from California, France, Argentina or Australia.

It’s kind of like skiing in the soft powder at Vail, Colorado and then going to some icy, man-made snow on a tiny hill in Virginia. I just don’t understand it.

It seems like virtually everything I buy is made in China, and yet their wines are incredibly hard to find. You’d think they’d be at every Wal-Mart.

I think the Chinese know that their wine is too good to export. And that’s why I have to go to China every year to get my fix. It’s always the highlight of my year, but they only let me bring back six bottles. That lasts me about ten days, and then depression sets in.
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A friend of mine often slides a hand down his pants while watching TV. Not to move things around; he likes to keep it down there. I’ve been meaning to ask him if he goes under his boxers or on top.

He doesn’t move his hand; he just keeps it resting directly on top of his unit. It’s as if he’s paranoid that something could fall from the ceiling and land on his crotch at any time.

But at least he uses his left hand. This small detail demonstrates a certain level of social awareness and sophistication.  
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I take an important test each morning, and if I score too low, I know that I’m not smoking enough pot. It’s called an in-home drug test, and it has allowed me to maintain a more stable level of cannabinoids in my system.

I’ve watched many people smoke too much marijuana and I’ve also met some people who don’t smoke enough. It’s hard to find the right balance. It pains me to see people get high and then keep smoking even though they can’t get any higher.

In more rare cases, I’ve observed the tentative pot smoker. He or she will say something like, “I’ll just take one hit.” That’s usually a major mistake, unless serious kind bud is involved. That’s why this test is so important; because with this test, you can find the amount that's right for you.
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My penis is littered with paper cuts in various stages of healing, and I want to know why. Like today I was alone, sitting at my computer and I wanted to let him breathe a little. Next thing I know, I’m shuffling some papers around and ssssslit!

A couple days ago I was reading a newspaper at a nude beach. The wind picked up and as I struggled to keep my paper together…ssssslit!  Not long before that, I was in bed, naked, stuffing envelopes to raise money for a local soup kitchen. You guessed it, ssssslit!

Five times in the past year, I’ve gotten really close to scoring with a chick and then she chickened out at the sight of my bloody member. Do you know how embarrassing that is? You go through the drinking, the kissing, the fondling, the undressing—and then bam! She sees blood all over your penis. I’m tired of hearing the screams, the ear-piercing screams.
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When I was in college at Berkeley in the 50s, my sorority sisters and I used to go to gangbangs all the time. Fraternities and sororities would get together for organized, social gangbangs. We'd meet each other and then we'd gangbang. That was what we did back then. Lots of gangbangs.

But today, I keep hearing the word clusterfuck. What is a clusterfuck? It sounds like a gangbang while playing a game of Twister. It sounds painful. With young people today, everything has to be more extreme than whatever their parents did. Each generation topping the previous.
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It is with penetrating sadness that I must announce the end of The Gay Black Jew. But I am very proud that Proctor & Gamble finally realized that I was their man to come up with better words for their cake mix boxes.

And so I have eagerly accepted my dream job: Assistant Brand Manager and Jr. Copywriter for Proctor & Gambles’ Flourless Cake Mix Division. I'll get paid to write very few words. Like maybe just two or three each day! It's a cake job.

I know that many of my tens of readers will be upset. But I get to have my cake and change the words on the box too. I'm done with fake news and the Gay Black Jew. It just wasn’t paying the bills—actually it WAS a bill. The beginning of the end of the GBJ came when Cheney shot his friend. When that happened, it dawned on me: Who needs fake news?
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HEAD ON! Apply directly to the forehead! HEAD ON! Apply directly to the forehead! If you haven’t seen the ads for Head On, you don’t know what I’m talking about. But those who have know them as the most annoying commercials in recent memory.

I have a B.A. in advertising and I interned at an ad agency as a copywriter. But I just couldn’t whore my mind. And this ad campaign is a good example why. It is the only one I can think of that could feasibly drive someone to commit suicide. It’s that bad. I’m not alone; the Head On commercials have been mentioned on both The Daily Show AND The Colbert Report.
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Last September, an entire way of life was threatened in Walkersville, South Carolina, as peace and tranquility dissolved, replaced by fear and anxiety. The unruffled became ruffled and the unperturbed perturbed, and nobody had an answer. The media embraced the story for a couple days, but never provided follow-up reports, as is often the case.

Walkersville is a very small, rural town. A vast majority of residents are fundamentalist Christians and die-hard republicans.
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In 2003, the U.S. invaded the nation of Iraq to overthrow a ruthless dictator. Directly after the war, an insurgency sprang up. US forces immediately began hiring any Iraqis who seemed friendly and spoke English to serve as interpreters.

Mike was a young Iraqi who had wondered on to one of Saddam's former pleasure palaces to see if he could find employment to help feed his family. As Mike poked through the bombed-out remains of the palace, a large convoy of Marines rolled through the gates.

Mike seemed afraid at first and a little hesitant. He wondered whether the Americans would be nice to him. So he decided to smile and wave to be on the safe side. As the Marines drove by, they smiled, waved and cheered. This made Mike relax a bit.
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America is often called the “land of the free,” and yet it has the highest incarceration rate in the world. Ahh, the irony. This should bring tears to the eyes of Lady Justice, but she’s only a statue. And only Jesus-freaks believe that statues can cry.

The Drug War is the main culprit for this embarrassing level of incarceration, and it serves as a perfect example for The Gay Black Jew Law Test. It’s quite simple. For each law, one must ask, "If this law were to be successfully enforced 100% of the time, would that be good for society or bad?"

If every marijuana smoker were arrested tomorrow, for instance, our economy would grind to a halt. The Gay Black Jew would cease to exist. Productive citizens who contribute tax dollars would all of a sudden become a negative drain on the government.
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Kim Jong-Il is my hero. I think he’s the most enlightened, effective and powerful leader in the world. I just don’t understand why he gets so much bad press.

He’s full of progressive ideas. In the U.S., we have a health care crisis. But North Korea has led the way in innovative health care solutions—if you just let people starve to death, they don’t need health care at all. They just die naturally. That saves billions of dollars that are much better spent on things like WMD programs and top-shelf liquor.
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Thanks to takeastandagainstliberals.com, I’ve been called an “unhinged moonbat.” At first I was confused, but wikipedia gave me a definition for “moonbat.” Then I was offended. But over the next 24 hours, it slowly dawned on me: Holy shit! I am an unhinged moonbat!

It was a defining moment for me. I feel so strongly about my new identity that when asked what I do for a living, I now respond by saying, “I’m an unhinged moonbat.” I’ve gotten a couple weird looks, but I believe in honesty. I am what I am. And what I am is an unhinged moonbat.

For 32 years I eluded any sort of typecasting, comprehensive terminology mold. I wasn’t just this and I wasn’t just that. So I felt like a gay black Jew. But now, this site could perhaps be more accurately called “The Unhinged Moonbat.”
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"God: Still Keepin' it Totally Unreal!" See, I like to make fun of god. I don't even capitalize the g. I also make fun of Jesus and terrorists on my site.

That’s why I carry a .357 Magnum wherever I go. It’s also why I have 37 different assault rifles, an anti-tank weapon and a .50 caliber heavy machine gun. You can never have enough fire power when you’re attacking a religion. My front lawn is a minefield. Don’t worry, on Halloween I make sure to turn off all my lights. Man, I hope I never forget to do that… CONTINUE STORY

Cumberland, Maryland is a depressing old town that’s within spitting distance of West Virginia. I stayed there recently for a few days to edit an elderly man’s book of poetry. After a day of editing, I went to a sleazy bar right across the street from where I was staying. Once inside, it reminded me of Moe’s from The Simpsons. I intended to quietly sit at the bar, people-watch and drink some beers while brainstorming story ideas. Then this story walked up to me.
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Growing up, it was something I feared. If I had had a bad year, on Christmas I’d get a lump of coal in my stocking. That was the threat, anyway. But today I find coal to be exciting, interesting and totally hip. 

My change of heart came with a simple ad featuring a young, Asian kid in his bedroom extolling the virtues of nature’s oldest fossil fuel. It was very realistic, and I immediately felt a natural connection with this bright, young mind. Of course, it was entirely plausible that, along with the usual teenage boy obsessions like video games, sports and girls, this clever kid was really into coal.
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It’s getting harder and harder to get good heroin these days. Last Saturday, for example, I went to a party at a friend’s house. There were about forty people in his basement and they all seemed to be having a great time. There were people laughing, playing drinking games, flirting, making out, smoking weed, and dancing to music.

After a few beers from the keg, I was having a good time. But what I really wanted was some good heroin. So, during a pause between songs, I asked everyone, “Where can I get some good heroin?” Suddenly, people looked at me like I was some kind of a freak.

I wasn’t going to hurt anybody; I just wanted some good heroin. Nobody talked to me for the rest of the night. A lot of people pointed at me, but nobody talked to me.
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I probably did LSD 50-70 times between the ages of 17 and 27. They were 49-69 of the most exciting times in my life. I had a “bad trip” once, but that was my own fault. I let some dude at Phish’s New Year’s 2000 outdoor festival drop liquid acid on my tongue. He squeezed his dropper a little too hard, and suddenly a couple drops became enough to gargle. Then I got lost among 80,000 people for eight hours, without the comfort of my kind bud.

I haven’t done acid since that Phish extravaganza.  
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You may not feel them, but thoughts might be beamed into your brain right now as you read this. You probably think they’re your own thoughts. That’s what the government wants you to think. I can feel the government thought-beams right now, because the government stole my tin foil hat.

It happened yesterday. I woke up and went through my normal morning routine: I shave, shower, get dressed and then I put on my tin foil hat. But it wasn’t where I left it. I always leave my tin foil hat on my coffee table—always. Government agents must have snuck into my house at night and made off with my carefully constructed, four-ply, heavy-duty aluminum foil hat.

Of course I’ll make another one, but the fact that my thought-beam deflecting hat was stolen only proves what our government is really doing.
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You're losing friends rapidly. Your co-workers are talking behind your back. Something is happening, but you don't know what it is. YOU NEED RUDE UNCLE.

People look at you like your fly is open, but it never is. You start conversations and the other person seems to always interrupt you and say something like, "Uh, I'm sorry. I really have to go..." YOU NEED RUDE UNCLE.

You have an amazing body and guys are always checking you out, but when you go on a date, it always fizzles. Even ugly guys can't stand to be around you for more than ten minutes. YOU NEED RUDE UNCLE.

Every time you make a new friend, they stop returning your calls within a couple days. On two blind dates in a row, your date had an "emergency" and had to leave before dinner even arrived. Your dog won't sit on your lap anymore. Something is happening, but you don't know what it is. Do you, Mr. Jones? YOU NEED RUDE UNCLE.
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