When it affects me, yes, there is something wrong with that

When it affects me, yes, there is something wrong with that

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So I recently had my first gay experience. 

And I have to tell you, it wasn't pretty.

In case you're wondering, yes, homosexuality is everything you'd think it would be:

There's a lot of pain. You spend a great deal of time trying to force your way into something you can't quite get into. And there's a tremendous amount of sucking.

And the thing is, if I had actually touched another man, it would've really been bad.

Confused? You're not the only one.

You see, last Monday morning I sat down at my desk at work, getting ready not to work like I always do.

I logged onto our company's network. Then, the Internet. Then I went to my Favorites folder, and clicked on Bullz-Eye.com, to see what type of literature the new Girl Next Door enjoys reading in her panties.

As I waited for the site to come up, something odd happened. 

The site didn't come up. 

Instead, what came up was this:

Access Denied. Please Contact Your Network Administrator!

That's odd, I thought. So I clicked on my Favorites folder and tried again.

Access Denied. Please Contact Your Network Administrator!

Then, I clicked on the Refresh button.

Access Denied. Please Contact Your Network Administrator!

Hmmmm, I thought. Maybe there's something wrong with my Favorites folder. So I went to the Explorer bar and typed:


Access Denied. Please Contact Your Network Administrator!

Our Internet service must be down, I thought. So just for grins, I tried to log onto espn.com.

I got right on. Or, to put it another way:

Access Not Denied. You Do Not Have to Contact Your Network Administrator!

Jeez, I said to myself a bit nervously, maybe my Internet service just needed to warm up a bit, right? Maybe all I needed to do was log onto one site and then everything will be fine, right?

I went back up to the address bar and typed it in again: 


Access Denied. Please Contact Your Network Administrator!

I'm not the brightest bulb in the lamp, but I knew something was wrong. Horribly wrong. Desperately, I tried some of my other Favorites:


Access Denied. Please Contact Your Network Administrator!


Access Denied. Please Contact Your Network Administrator!


Access Denied. Please Contact Your Network Administrator!


Access Denied. Please Contact Your Network Administrator!

Jesus Christ, I thought. I've been busted.

All those hours of surfing porn had finally caught up to me.

Big Brother was now watching. And apparently, he didn't like to see women do things with corn on the cob as much as I did.

And so, with sweat pouring from my forehead, I ran into the office of the girl next to me.

"Hey," I said as calmly as possible, "can I try something on your computer?"

"Sure," she said. 

I knocked her out of her chair and I typed in bullz-eye.com

Access Denied. Please Contact Your Network Administrator!

Big Brother was now watching. And apparently, he didn't like to see women do things with corn on the cob as much as I did.

Oh Christ, I thought. This was even worse. 

Now everybody was being censored. And it was all my fault. 

I knew I had to do something about it. I mean, I deserved to suffer. I needed to have the privilege of seeing grandmothers in thongs taken away from me. But no one else did.

So I went back into my office and called our information technology expert, hoping to beg and plead for forgiveness.

"Hi," I said casually. "Hey, so I can't seem to get onto a couple of Websites. Is there something wrong with our network?"

"No," he said. "We subscribe to software which limits Internet access to sites that aren't deemed appropriate to the workplace."

Of course, what he really meant to say was:

"You sick wackjob. If you want to look at that kind of crap, do it at home. And by the way, here's an interesting thought: While you're at work, how about doing some freaking work?"

"So, um, have we always had this software?" I asked.

"No," he said. "We've recently had some issues here at the office which we've had to, um, take care of."

"I'm so sorry," I said. "I promise to never go on imthebabysitterwillyoupleasedrivemehome.com ever again."

"It wasn't you," he said.

"I was just kidding then," I said.

"No you weren't," he said. "But still, it wasn't you."

"Who was it then?" I asked.

"I can't tell you that," he said.

"I'll give you a dollar," I said.

"I still can't tell you," he said.

"I'll give you 20 dollars," I said.

"I still can't tell you," he said.

"I'll show you a schematic drawing of a Pentium processor," I said.

"Pentium three or Pentium four?" he asked.

The funny thing was, when I knew it wasn't me, I suddenly went from fearing for my life, to anger and amazement. 

My anger:

How dare this person's irresponsible activities take away from my ability to access important information on the World Wide Web?

My amazement:

What sites could this person possibly be on that were worse than anything I've ever been on?

I was bound and determined to use all of my wit and guile to find out who was disrupting my constant and steady flow of naked high-speed data information.

I was obsessed with using all my cunning to discover the perpetrator no matter how long it took.

It took exactly four minutes.

I walked over to the cubicle of the Queen of Office Gossip.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," she said.

"How are your kids?" I asked.

"What do you want to know?" she said.

"So have you heard anything about this Internet blocking thing?" I asked.

"You betcha," she said. "You're gonna love this."

Then, she leaned in. 

When they lean in, you know it's going to be good.

"From what I hear," she said, meaning she had already spoken to a minimum of 12 people, "somebody downstairs came in early one morning last week. When this woman walked in, she noticed something coming out of the printer. She thought it was odd, thinking she was the only person here that early. So she went over to the printer to see what it was."

"I'm guessing it wasn't somebody's expense report," I said.

"Nope," she said. Then, she leaned in closer.

When they lean in closer, you know it's going to be even better.

"Gay porn," she said, almost whispering.

"Swear to God?" I said. "Butt pirates photos? Assmasters? Cornholers?"

"Sssssssh," she said.


If, during the course of your day, you find yourself in a situation that requires the use of adult language, please keep the level of your voice to a minimum. Particularly when using words such as, but not limited to:

*packing, as it relates to fudge.

*burglar, preceded by a reference to a turd.

*highways located at and/or nearby Hershey.

"Swear to God?" I whispered. "She saw some pictures of Masters of the Anal Universe?" 

"From what I hear," she said, meaning she talked to 10 other people on top of the 12 she talked to before, "it was a really graphic picture of two gay guys."

Which I kind of figured. I mean, I would imagine a photo of two men attached like train cars would, in fact, be considered graphic in nature. 

"No!" I said.

"Yes!" she said. "Then, I guess she kind of freaked out, grabbed the picture and took it back to her office. Then when somebody else showed up, she showed it to them and they freaked out, too."

Which, I suppose, was about two levels of freaking-out below the freaking-out of the guy who actually printed out the picture and when he went to get it, it was gone.

"So who's the gay guy?" I asked, leaning in.

"I can't tell you that," she said.

"Please, give me a clue," I begged.

"Okay," she said. "The clue is that it's the guy wearing the red sweater and the jeans who sits two cubes down from here."

And while I didn't have a dictionary in front of me, I was almost positive her answer extended beyond the definition of "a clue."

"Ass Boy?" I asked, referring to the gay guy two cubicles down from her. We call him Ass Boy because he's got the smallest ass of any human being I've ever seen over the age of 10. Not that I've looked or anything.

"Yup," she said.

"Thanks to him, now we're all restricted to what we can see. This sucks." I said.

"Sorry you can't get on pubichairforsale.com anymore," she said.

I didn't know what to say, because she was right, of course. 

I just shook my head in sad, pathetic disdain and walked away.

I went back to my office and tried to reflect upon the situation. Which didn't take long, actually.

After all, how much time do you want to spend thinking about the fact that you've been violated by a pillow biter?

And while I like to consider myself an open-minded individual, I now was feeling an uncomfortable bitterness toward those who choose to live an alternative lifestyle.

Thanks to their sick, twisted perversions, I was now blocked from experiencing all that's important in life. 





All, gone.

Those sick, twisted perverts and their sick, twisted ways. Look what they've taken away from me.

What was I supposed to do now at work? Work?

It was getting worse by the minute.

As I sat and stared at my blank computer screen, I found myself wanting to hate gay men and everything they bend over for.

What was I supposed to do now at work? Work? It was getting worse by the minute.

I wanted to despise their sexual orientation and how it had directly affected my life.

And I wanted to call them mean names and think mean thoughts and write mean things about them.

I also wanted to get a refund on my one-year subscription to ilookexactlylikjejudyjetson.com, but that's a whole other story.

Truth is, I wanted to do all of those things, when it happened.

I looked up, and there he was. Standing in my doorway. 

The Prince of Pencil Sharpening. The Lord of Lances. The Emperor of Elbow Grease.

Ass Boy.

"Hey," I said, hiding my pain.

"Hi," he said. "I've got some paperwork on the project that's due next week."

"Thanks, pole smoker," I said. Without saying the pole-smoker part.

"I appreciate your help on this," he said. "Thanks a lot."

And with that, Ass Boy and his tight little ass left. 

As he walked away, I realized my anger was gone. My bitterness had vanished. My frustration, no longer evident.

Because suddenly, it hit me like a ton of bricks. 

He's human, just like me.

It's not his fault he is who he is.

He has no control over his feelings. His emotions. His preferences.

Who am I to judge another of God's creations? How dare I insinuate in any way that he is less of a person than I because of who he is?

How dare that I, in any way, imply that he should be branded in a negative manner simply because I'm not like him.

Just who in the hell do I think I am? 

Y'know, maybe in the grand scheme of things, this is good. Maybe now I can focus on my job and actually accomplish goals in life and further my career, as opposed to looking for another pair of fake breasts.

Maybe, just maybe, this wasn't a bad thing. Maybe, he did me a favor.

As I continued with my revelation, my phone rang.

"Hello?" I said.

"Hey, it's Brent," said my friend, Brent.

"What's up?" I asked.

"thethingsgirlscandowithgardenhoses.com," he said. "It's great."

"I can't," I said.

"Too busy?" he said.

"No," I said. "This spunk monkey at the office tried to print out some gay porn and somebody else saw it and now we're blocked from adult sites thanks to the anal cowboy."

Y'know, come to think of it, maybe I'll start being sensitive to other people tomorrow.



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