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The official site of sniveling writer Josh Muggins

I wrote me these suckers, too.

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What's new? Wussie: In Praise of Spineless Men now available in paperback! Our long national nightmare is over!

Summer of Marv now available as ebook! Woo-hoo! Now you can ignore these classics in entirely new formats!

The Tao of Durl (January 3, 2014)

A Brief Aside on the Rules of Courtship in a Japanese University (April 28, 2014)

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January 3, 2015

2014: The Year in DIY Ejaculation

It's a rout: Megumi 8, Kate 0

My fellow Americans, 2014 was a year of unprecedented domestic political rancor, a year of revolting manmade disasters, a year of terrifying outbreaks of religious radicalism and deadly disease, and a year of just a god-awful lot of jizz flowing down the various drains in my apartment. It may well have been the first year that my personal domestic semen production actually increased over the previous year since, oh, I’m guessing 1970.

Now, against all common sense, I’m going to continue to write at great length about my 2014 domestic semen production on the assumption that the subject engrosses you, and you will continue reading with white knuckles wrapped around your screen.

So, then, what exactly do I mean when I talk of “domestic” semen production? Why, I refer to that semen produced in my own Yokohama apartment, using the combined resources of a high-speed internet connection, my imagination, and a crackerjack sex toy. * Granted, I did achieve a certain number of ejaculations throughout the year with the aid of another 3D human. As to how many 3D humans were involved and how that semen was mined, I will remain mum. A gentleman never reveals. Anyway, you would not be interested in any tedious, detailed accounts of the sensuous nude forms and feline sexual prowess of a series of lithe, limber and eager young Asian women. I know you, my faithful reader. Ergo, back to my semen!

Likewise, you probably aren’t the least bit interesting in why my semen production, after steadily falling due to the ravages of age since the days when President Richard Nixon enjoyed high approval ratings, suddenly experienced an uptick. But I will tell you anyway.

Well, Americans, the short answer is that I just had a pretty good year in 2014. At least, the part after my mother died in January. That kind of sucked. But the rest of the year, thanks perhaps to her guiding spirit, went quite smoothly. And a happy fifty-eight-year-old English teacher, as the old adage goes, is an ejaculating fifty-eight-year-old English teacher.

Actually, there was another unfortunate incident in October, when I ceased being a happy fifty-eight-year-old English teacher and unwillingly became a happy fifty-nine-year-old one. But do you think that shocking setback stopped me for one minute from ejaculating onward and upward? Well, yes. Yes, it did. Even I can’t be ejaculating every single minute. There is such a thing as recovery time, you know. But gram per gram, my besieged gonads continued to deliver the goods during those final ten weeks of the year at a commensurate pace.

The next thing that you’re not at all dying to know is, just who was it that provoked in me all this urge to ejaculate at my advanced age? Well, you’re in luck because I kept records.

Who I ejaculated to in 2014:

1. Active students 116 spurts
2. Employees of Shibuya Relax Club 73 spurts
3. Porn performers 54 spurts
4. Former students 22 spurts
5. Game of Thrones actresses 5 spurts
6. Lizzy Caplan 2 spurts
7. CNN International's African newscaster whose goddam name they never show on the screen, like it's some sort of nuclear launch code or something 1 spurt
8. Kate Upton 0 spurts

Now admittedly, these numbers aren’t cut and dried. Attributing a particular ejaculation to an individual is something like trying to determine which NFL player gets credited with a sack. Often there’s one guy who is instrumental in clearing the path, after which his teammate can readily stumble through and snag the QB. In similar fashion, it might be Megumi from Monday first period who gets the capillaries flowing, while it ends up being the Red Sorceress from GoT who swoops in to absorb the load. Talk about strange bedfellows.

I think the take-home point here is derived when we look at the top four categories, which together account for some 97.1 percent of my 2014 spermification. The top rank (42.5%) goes to the category of females I encountered most frequently, day in and day out. Numbers 2 and 4 (34.8%) are filled by groups of women whom, with some degree of preparation and at some expense, I could have arranged to meet. Only Number 3 (19.8%) represents a remote group of individuals to whom I could not realistically expect to gain direct access at any cost.

I sort of wish that other enthusiasts of ejaculating (I just know you’re out there!) were as meticulous as I in record keeping, as it would be edifying to compare notes. I mean, let’s consider porn. As readers of this blog know all too well, I love it. And as more careful readers know, I also love the fact that it didn’t become widely available and free until I was pushing fifty, because I do not wish to fathom the effects that free porn would have had on my spongy little cortex in my twenties.

But for all my affection for porn, as a masturbatory aide it pales in comparison to the females I encounter routinely, even though, with increasingly rare exceptions, I will never, ever see those females naked. My best hope at this age—and it is a hope rewarded with surprising frequency—is to snag the occasional bikini shot off the Facebook feed of a college girl who has naively friended me.**

Still, any one of these friendly, occasionally even flirtatious, but never ever ever naked personages will, for me, always trump the daylights out of a whole hot-tub full of squealing Japanese fellatists, and again, the question remains: Is that just me? Or are most cis males wired that way?

Here’s how I’m wired: If you wanted to mathematically quantify the pleasure that I feel upon seeing a woman naked, traditional measurements of that woman’s beauty (her sizes, age, etc.) would ultimately be minor factors in the formula. The key ingredient would consist of the amount of time and (though harder to quantify) intensity of concentration that I have expended imagining her naked prior to the reward.

A salient example of this from the most recent season of Game of Thrones is the long postponed nude scene of Missandei (the actress Nathalie Emmanuel). When she first appears in Season 3, taken on as a servant by Daenarys, my reaction was “Oh, she seems nice.” When she kept showing up in the background of the Essos scenes in her endless series of haltertops and her proud wind-tossed afro, the reaction ever so gradually evolved to “Hmmm...”

Now and again, there would be a Daenarys nude scene, where one might think, “Oh, Emilia Clarke’s tits again! Long time no see! Always welcome, of course, but what about what’s-her-name in the background there? Doesn’t she ever need a bath?” And by the time Season 4 finally rolls around, you’re all like, “Oh, come on, seriously. Show us Missandei’s tits already.” And of course, that’s just what the makers of Game of Thrones do at that very juncture, because that chick really does need a bath sometimes and these Game of Thrones people really know what they’re doing.***

Now, unless one of my current female students gets cast for a role in Game of Thrones really soon—which would be, I say with confidence, just the giddiest thing that could ever happen to a fifty-nine-year-old English teacher—then I’m never going to see any of my current students completely naked. Still, there is that sliver of hope. In the meantime, it’s the here-and-now-ness of students that makes them so effective as ejaculatory aides.

And that’s why, flex my meager empathy muscles as I may, I’m never quite able to crack the whole “body issues” issue. How can the women in my daily life—or yours, or Brent Musburger’s, or that of any other man—think for a second that she would rank lower on our carnal thermometers than some supermodel we have no prospect of meeting??

Scroll back to my list again. See where Kate Upton is hanging? Tied at zero with Maggie Smith about four billion other female life forms on the planet, that’s where. Oh, I’ve seen fetching photos of Kate while at work, and have thought more than once that I might make use of them after getting home. But once I do get home and settled into my designated ejaculatory chair, it always seems too much bother to re-Google Kate when I have fresh photos or film of so many Saoris or Megumis or Kanakos or whatever.

What sort of warped mind is it that might catch me ogling a photo of Kate Upton on my office PC and think, “Wow, Muggins likes that kind of rack, huh? Damn, I don’t stand a chance making his Fantasy Hit Parade”? I just don’t get that thinking. I really don’t. It makes me sad, and therefore I prefer not to dwell on it too long, lest it impede the likelihood of a brisk and jaunty ejaculation before bedtime.

I don’t know... Maybe I’m just overthinking this whole ejaculation business.

What do you think?

* I am speaking metaphorically. You cannot obtain this wonderful item in a Crackerjack box no matter how many you purchase.

** And for the tongue-cluckers out there, it is always she who befriends me. On FB, I let the Vampire Principle guide me. I don’t maraud until I’m invited in.

*** Not like some careless porn hack who shows you a woman rutting atop some musclebound oaf, unbound boobs bippity-boppiting hither and yon, right out of the gate before you’ve even had a chance to see her in a haltertop and get to the “Hmm...” part. Damned amateurs...

October 28, 2014

Does This Site Make Me Look Old and Out of It? It Does, Doesn’t It. What Do You Call This Thing, Anyway—a Blog or a Post or... Jesus Tits, I’m Old

The blog will resume as soon as I finish three more chapters of Leviticus.

Just as I was feeling pretty smug technology-wise—I hooked up a new printer using Japanese instructions! I edited a new paperback that, when viewed peripherally while on Quaaludes, looks like the product of a real publisher! I exhibited the (seemingly rare) sense not to turn on Photo Stream after taking naked pictures of myself!—along comes this steaming buffalo chip from the Turd-binders from Way Back at Business Insider to harsh my mellow:

5 Things On Your Résumé That Make You Look Old

Looks benign enough, eh? But probe deeper, and soon you will find yourself waist-deep in a turd-soup of the sort of hurtful, spiteful, gratuitous meanness seldom glimpsed outside sorority groupmails.

What say we deconstruct this “listicle,” you and I? Is this a “listicle”? I’ve seen the word but this is my virgin spin with it…

1. Your home address.

“Today there is no longer a need to put your home address on the résumé, since it's almost always sent electronically...”

Oh, get the eff out. I’m currently recruiting serfs—I mean, adjunct professors—to teach in the program that I supervise at R University and am starting to bump up against this weird notion.

I first noticed the trend during our 2013 recruiting, and wrote it off as carelessness. I sent one applicant a smarmy email hinting that his CV conspicuously lacked a basic element, expecting a sheepish reply and an apology, but instead just got his address in a terse response.

For God’s sake, keep putting your street address—or at least, some indication of the area you live in—so that potential employers can gauge your commuting time. Our experience has been that part-timers who require more than an hour to get to our campus are highly likely to leave us the moment a similar opportunity closer to home appears, in no small part because (and I trust you five or six regular readers to keep this among yourselves) our university blows. Travel distance is a legitimate factor in our selection process.

2. Your Hotmail or AOL email address.

One telltale sign that you are over 50 is an or email address, or one from your cable provider, says Miller.

Create a Gmail account immediately.

Aw, sweet Jupiter’s taint! All right, I’ll give you AOL; hadn’t known that such addresses still existed. But show me where Gmail trumps Hotmail. I've always thought Gmail was invented primarily as the tertiary, psuedonymous email address to be used when registering for porn sites, and that's about it. And just last weekend I received an application from a 31-year-old with a Hotmail address, so suck it, Business Insider. Hotmail rules! (Does it make me sound old to use "rules" in this fashion? It does, doesn't it.)

As Lillian Hellman once so succinctly put it, “I cannot and will not switch my generic email account to fit this year’s fashions.”

3. Your home phone number.

Who under the age of 45 still has a landline?

(Sheepishly raising hand.) And here’s a kicker that should give snooty Mr. Insider a seizure, or at least a fit of schoolgirlish giggles: my landline phone is also…a fax machine!! Which I still use a few times per year!!

In my “defense,” the condo association to which I belong offers only fax or snail-mail as options for submitting the signed proxy form I’m obliged, as an absentee owner, to submit before meetings. And then, of course, there are the Xeroxed dick-pics that I regularly fax to Janet Reno.

So, any advice regarding new-fangled alternatives to the landline?

"We ditched our home phone five years ago, and I am quite a bit older than 45," Miller says.

"If you still have a home phone and do not want to give out your cell phone number, get a Google Voice number."

Yes, okay. Sure. I’ll do that at once. I totally know what that means. I do.

4. Double spacing after periods.

"I am going to go out a limb and declare that putting two spaces after a period is obsolete," Miller explains. "It is how most of us were taught to type on a typewriter. Therefore, most of us who do this (I have taught myself to stop putting two spaces after a period and it was hard) are over 50 years of age."

Miller says he has heard that this has been used as a method of screening out older candidates.

Well, well, well. Blind pig, please meet acorn. Acorn? This is blind pig.

In other words, I concur with Business Insider, and can safely say that I’ve been double-space-after-period free since the late Seventies (and have the old journals to prove it).

But hey, Business Insider snobs, as long as we’re getting all huffy about typing conventions: your article title capitalizes every word, including function words that are not at the beginning or end of said title. I’ll give you a pass on the pronouns—those are judgment calls—but capital O on “On”? Really, Business Insider? Go ahead and copy-paste that title into Word. We’ll all wait...

See the green line under your “On"? See that?? You see, I think that make you look old.

Really. I do. Keep your distance, B.I. I don’t want your gnarly, blotchy old hands near my blossoming man-boobs.

5. Your outdated skills.

Limit the skills you list on your résumé to current and relevant ones.

"I could list that I wrote MS-DOS control programs, wrote machine level code developing word processors, managed IBM mainframe computers, and lots of other obsolete technologies," he says. "Unless I was applying for a position that required these skills, all it tells the reader is I am over 50 years of age and maybe older."

All righty, then. I promise I will not trot out my MS-DOS writing skills, ever again, not even to amaze the (collateral) grandkids. Happy, Business Insider? Happy that you’ve ruined my day with all your Gmail babble and Google Voice drivel?

I’m going to get drunk and calculate Walter Johnson’s ERA by abacus now while I wait for Janet to fax me back. You go suck a tailpipe.