Dear Evil Discussor... What? What the fuck is that thing over there on the right called An Evil Primer?

Oh, come on, you know what it is. It's a compilation of posts. From the past, present, and future. Some awesome. Some just crazy amazing. Why, even this post is included, and it's barely even passable. It was no easy task, picking posts for inclusion in this Pantheon of Postiliciousness. Especially when you take into consideration that everything I ever do or say or write is magical and inspired or, at the very least, wonderful. But it had to be done. I spent months and months, no, days upon days, fine, about half an hour, laboring over this, my Canon-ish Column of Cocksmanship, seeking and selecting only the finest 'babies,' as I like to call to them. And if you think some posts don't really belong here, please do tell. And then, go fucking critique your own blog, fucklegs. If you don't have a blog, start one, write a bunch of posts, wait a while, then make a greatest hits-like column, and then critique it, fucklegs.

And so, it is decreed, on this, the fifth Friday of September, in the year ought six, that "any and all evil newbie newcomers that doth visiteth this ere evilest site, shall, if turned off by the overwhelmingly lacklustereth and mediocrest nature of that day's most probably horrible awful post, learn, by reading An Evil Primer in its entirety, that once in a very, very, very rare while, something slightly entertaining, or maybe just kind of amusing, or even just halfways not retarded, emerges off the pages of this here virtual web log cyberspace site thing, and that, not only has Evil Discussor been linked by many other blogs that are actually decent, but also, that he is the Evilest Man in all of Evilstan, and sometimes wants to hump someone on Hump Day, and also, is a big fan of pants, and also, couldn't keep up that whole faux-olde english thing through the whole paragraph, but will now return to it. And so it is writ."

Newcomers, may you gently and tenderly be poked and prodded by my eviliciousness! May you spend an entire evening at least reading my carefully constructed passages, and hopefully, touching thyself! May you be de-frocked and de-hymenized by my barely entertaining insight and douchiness! May I never not write one sentence without some sort of sexy metaphor or sexual innuendo! May that double or triple negative fuck you right up as it did me! And may you eventually join the ranks of my astoundingly large, largely incompetent, and oft-times large-breasted, growing fan nation of blerds and other blogtards!

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... How come you don't write so much about pants anymore?

It's true. I haven't written about pants in a while. And that's sad.


I remember when I used to write about pants. About how much I enjoyed pants. How I loved wearing them, and buying them, and wearing them. I was a lover of the pant, I was. Any sort of pant really. As long as it had two legs and a crotch, it was good by me. (Alright, fine, mainly jeans. And preferably the low-waisted kind of jeans, so as to have a tuft of my pubes hanging over the top- ED) Such sweet days they were, those pant-loving halcyon days. And don't worry, I don't really know what halcyon means either. All I know is, pants loved me, and I, in turn, loved pants.

They were wonderful days. Days of innocence. Of wonderment. Of pants. Way back before I bit from the proverbial apple of temptation and was cast out of the Garden of Pants. Out into the world of experience. Where confusion and doubt are the name of the game. Where self-awareness and sin rule. Where there's no real reason to write about pants anymore. Where there's "more important" things to write about. Like God and cheese fries. Gum and real estate brokers. And, also, sucky fucky.

But maybe it's time. Maybe it's time I turned back the clock. And took back what is rightfully mine. Maybe it's time I pull myself back up on to that pant pedestal and just fucking rock, you know? Maybe it's time I dream the impossible dream. Maybe it's time I reach back for the unreachable. Back to a pant-loving pant-post-writing time. A time long ago, when I wouldn't dream of wasting an entire post, and an entire 48 seconds of your time, on complete nonsense and hooey, just because I had nothing to say but still felt the urge to post for some awful reason, and so, might end up writing about something like, say, how I don't write about pants anymore. Back when I had something important to say, fuck. Something important to say that just had to be heard. Something important to say about pants, dammit.

Yes. I believe it's time. I believe it's time you read some of my old mediocre posts about pants.

some of my old mediocre posts about pants
Dear Evil Discussor... How do you feel about pants?
Dear Evil Discussor... What did you do over the long weekend?

Dear Evil Discussor... Will you have my cyber child?

Yes. Of course I will. I would love to. I would love nothing more than to put my cyber spatula in your cyber saucepan and make some cyber lovesauce. But before I cybernate you with my cyber seed, you must promise me a few things:

1) That if we have a boy, he will be named Gregor. If its a girl, Lubmilla. Yes, we will have a little Russian cyber baby. Don't ask why. Just agree.

2) That we will dress our adorable little Russian cyber spawn in nothing but Gap Baby, and then, of course, Gap Kids. He or she will never want for adorable onesies nor unbelievably cute matching tops and bottoms and, on special occasions, will wear little argyle sweater vests, a mini leather jacket, and a little newsboy cap.

3) That we will sometimes put our sweet little cyber baby in a pair of sunglasses that are way too big for his/her head.

4) That, even if its a boy, our beautiful little Russian virtual wonder baby will have long wavy hair and, in the nighttime, will wear a night dress. Before beddy-by, he will come running to me and call out, "Papa! Papa!" in a French accent. We will find this bizarre because, as we both know, he is Russian.

5) That you have big boobies.

If all of these conditions can be agreed upon, then we can start with the cyber sucking/fucking/baby-making. And you can start interviewing the cyber Filipinos.

OK,
E.D.


some other times i have been loved for the evil ass that i am
Dear Evil Discussor... Is it blog-love at first sight?
Dear Evil Discussor... Why do mosquitoes love you so much?
Dear Evil Discussor... Are you available?

a post i once wrote about salad
Dear Evil Discussor... How's lunch?

Dear Evil Discussor... Does it bother you that Evil Discussor isn't even your real name?

No, Anon. It doesn't.

But does it bother you that you're not even a real person? That's right. You don't even fucking exist. I just totally made you up just to pretend that someone actually asked this question. So there. And it's not even a good question. One of my worst in fact. Barely even was worth asking. So double whammo. You don't exist, and you ask horrible questions. Fucking sit on that, doucheypants.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Boxers or Briefs?

Boxer briefs, dummy.

And yes, I am displaying two pictures of men in their underwear on my blog today. And I feel fine about it.

That's right. Today I am the internet host of two tight shots of the male crotch.

Two pics that could be easily construed as homoerotic.

But I'm cool with that.

Say what you will, but I'm secure in my sexuality.

Very secure.

And this only proves it.

I'm as far from gay as one can possibly be.

And having no problem with having these pictures up on my site is a testament to that fact.

Yep, I really, really like women, trust me.

I enjoy having sex with women, and that's the truth.

I like VGs. There's no doubt about that.

Loves me the vagina.

Can't get enough of it.

The VGer, the better.



ALRIGHT, FINE, FUCK, IT'S TRUE. I CAN'T FUCKING STOP STARING AT THOSE MAN CROTCHES, FUCK. I TRY TO LOOK AWAY BUT HAVE TO KEEP LOOKING BACK. AND THEY KEEP LOOKING BACK AT ME. LIKE ONE OF THOSE PAINTINGS THAT ALWAYS SEEMS TO BE LOOKING YOU IN THE EYE NO MATTER WHERE YOU'RE STANDING. THAT SEMI-FUCKING-PROFILE SHOT WITH THE BULGE IN IT? HOW COULD I NOT FIND THAT CRAZILY FUCKING AMAZING? AM I NOT HUMAN? DO I NOT BLEED? I KEEP RELOADING THE PAGE JUST TO SEE THOSE HAIRY FUCKING MAN LEGS APPEAR OUT OF NOWHERE AGAIN. I CAN'T STOP IMAGINING WHERE THAT OTHER GUY'S TREASURE TRAIL OF PUBIC MAN-LOVE LEADS. I'VE EVEN PUT THESE PICS IN MY IPHOTO AND CREATED A SLIDESHOW TO THE TUNE OF FLEETWOOD MAC'S "GO YOUR OWN WAY." I'M USING THE KEN BURNS EFFECT. I HAVE MAN CROTCHES FLOATING IN AND OUT OF MY FIELD OF VISION. I'M IN OVER MY HEAD AND I KIND OF LIKE IT. I'M WRITING THIS IN ALL CAPS TO GIVE YOU THE SENSE THAT I AM YELLING IN ORDER TO DEMONSTRATE HOW ENRAGED I AM WITH THE FACT THAT I FIND THESE PICTURES OF MAN CROTCHES WEIRDLY TITILLATING AND FUCKING AWESOME.



look! more of these totally useless dumbass posts
Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Outdoors or Indoors?
Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Apples or Bananas?
Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Squares or Circles?

Dear Evil Discussor... How could a God forsake his believers? Worse yet, deceive them?

At the risk of getting a smidgen too philosophically metaphysically theologically fuckedup-ical here, I will attempt to answer your very, very heavy question, Blah.

You are clearly confused, Blah. Questioning your faith. Your devotion to sweet little old Evil me is in doubt. You have worshipped, nay, blerdshipped, at my altar for so long now, and I understand. You hath been deceived. You need answers, Blah. How could I have betrayed you in such a way? How could I have taken that trust that I cultivated in you, and gone and smeared poo-poo on that trust? How can one of my very heavily moisturized hands caress your soft, silky cheek, stroking it lovingly and tenderly, flittering you away into a semi-sleeping wonderful waking wet dream, soothing you into a half-state of half-bliss, while my other hand jars you awake with a slap to the back of your head, jams a finger in both of your eyes like that Rutger Hauer android in Bladerunner, and then forces you to give me a throat job? These are questions we all must answer in this very difficult, trying time. All of us. Not just you, Blah. I have betrayed your confidences, but I assure you, I will win your trust back, and we will work through this hardship together.

How could a God, such as myself, deceive his followers, you ask? Well, sometimes deception is a wonderful device, Blah. A tool. A tool not unlike, say, I don't know, maybe, you. But besides, deceiving is kind of what Gods do, no? I mean, shit, I was just being Godly is all.

Did God himself not build the tower of Babel for to confuse his subjects with language and, in doing so, learn them a very important lesson?

Yes, I believe God did.



Did God not rain down hellish death water crazy flood fury for 40 days and 40 nights, and save only Noah and some animals, just to clean up the old world a teeny bit?

Again, God did.



Did God not ask Isaac or Jacob, or whoever that was, to slaughter his son, Joseph or Marvin or Pinchus, on the altar as a sacrifice, and then go "Just kidding!" just to test his devotion?

Fuck right, God did.



And did God not order a pizza and chinese delivery to the house across the street and watch from behind the curtains, giggling like a schoolgirl, as they both arrived at the same time?

Yes, I'm pretty sure God did.


After all, who hasn't? Which is kind of my point. Like the rest of us, God knows how to party. God knows how to turn a lame evening of TV watching into a ball of laughs, with just a couple of short phone calls to Domino's and Taste of Sichuan, his quick wit, and a hilarious fake voice.

And I think that's the point here, Blah. First, that obviously, God knows how to party. And second, that nobody but nobody, doesn't find ordering pizza and chinese to the neighbor's house funny. Except the neighbor maybe. He'd be pissed. And the neighbor's wife. And whoever else lives there. And the pizza guy and chinese deliveryman might be out some money too. But fuck it. We all can't win, can we? Which is exactly my point maybe. And besides, I think you can see that my point here is, I'd actually be happy if I happened to get a surprise delivery of chinese and pizza. Especially if I was hungry. Because both chinese food and pizza are delicious, right? And it would save me the hassle of ordering. You see what I'm saying?


Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Is this the last Evil Discussor post ever?

Yes, I do have some sad news. That very well might shake the blogging world to its very core. It has most certainly shaken me. And I am usually rather unshakable. This may come as a little of a surprise to most of you, but I'm afraid that the answer to today's question is "Yes." Today is my last post. The final post for the Evil Discussor. It's true. I will evilly discuss no more. It's been kind of inevitable. A lot of things have been happening recently in my life, and to be totally honest, my Evil heart has not been in its proper Evil place. Its become very clear to me that the time has come for change.

Before I close the book on this chapter of my Evil life, I just wanted to thank you. All of you. Everyone who's ever even read just a couple of words of mine. Who's ever commented, positively or negatively, for better or for worse. Who's ever had their day slightly lifted by a silly little something I might have said. For me, these past bunch of blogging months have quite possibly been the greatest months of my life. An experience that I will not soon forget. The moments I spend sitting at my keyboard, typing away, sending my little love posts out to you, are the most personally fulfilling and rewarding moments of my each and every day. And I thank you for that. For the time you've spent reading what I've had to say. For the connection that we've made and shared. I've never met most of you, but I have cherished every last minute we've spent together. I am certain that I am a better person for it. And hopefully, in some ways, you are too.

But all good things must come to an end. And though these past months have been like a rather wondrous dream, some things have come up in my life. Some issues that can no longer be avoided. That I can no longer hide from, and must deal with, and focus all of my energy on. Like, my chronic masturbation problem, for starters. I'm only trying to joke, to keep this light, but I think you can tell how difficult this really is for me. Saying goodbye isn't easy. But it must be done. From this day forth, I will be putting this whole blogging business behind me, once and for all.

So, to all other bloggers out there, to all commenters, to all readers, I say thanks once again. Keep on writing. Keep on reading. And, most importantly, keep on blogging. You are truly, truly amazing. Each and every one of you. The world needs you. And don't forget that.

Thanks again for everything - it was a great ride.



I know, I know. You're thinking, "Don't do this, Evil. My days won't be the same without you. I cannot live without your douchebaggery and humpaliciousness. Like a sweet song, your evilocity has gotten me through some tough times. A rough spell at work. A nasty divorce. A child molestation charge. I need you. I really do. And I love you. More than a friend. You make me laugh. Once in a very very rare while, true. But whatever. Still. Don't retire this blog. Please. Please. Don't go."

Well, its going to be hard but... Wait.

Really?

Wow. Fine. Okay. Fuckit. I'll stay. For you. Alright. Cool. Forget all that gay 'leaving' shit. I'm back.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Wait a sec. You were deathly ill, yet still somehow managed to post from a hospital bed. Does that make you pathetic? Or a God?

I don't always know the answer to every question. But I'm pretty sure the answer to this is the God one.


Only a God would let nothing, no amount of pain, nor discomfort, nor lack of anything really interesting at all to say whatsoever, stand in his Godly way, in order to blog.

Only a God would think first of his minions of blogtards, who need their daily ration of blogtardation for sustenance. For without said blogstenance, they most surely would start to cough, and then choke, then shrivel up and die a sad death of boredom and horrible death awfulness.

Only a God would have such superhuman blogging powers so as to not be deterred from blogging by the presence of an IV in his arm, a bedpan by his side, and a probing finger up his ass about once a day. Which was already kind of encompassed in the first "Only a God," with the whole "pain and discomfort" part, but whatever, go with me here, I'm riffing. And also, I'm God, so shush, douchenose.

Only a God would use the word "douche" so very much.

Only a God would refer to himself as Bloggy Oggy Oggins, or Bilbo Bloggins, or even Dr. Fucknuts, every once in a while. Especially when alone, and standing in front of a mirror, trying on hats. What all this has to do with anything, I'm not sure. You tell me.

Only a God would, when bedridden in a hospital bed, I don't know, feel the need to get someone else, like maybe his ladyfriend even, maybe I don't know, type up and post his blogs for him maybe, cause said God maybe feared losing his blog fame, and blog fortune, and overwhelming blog adoration, and can't afford to lose a single one of his 10 to 14 daily hits, cause just maybe those hits just might be the only way that that God, kind of, gets any feeling of security, and sense of self-worth, and confidence, and sort of feels truly accepted really, and it's awful, and sad, and whatever, I guess, maybe, fuck off, I hate you, yet I need you so... I'm a fucking God, you fucker! A fucking God, I say!

So, yeah. The answer to this question is surely that I am a God. Come to think of it, possibly the God of Patheticness. But that's a God nonetheless. So, whatever. I'll take it.

Yours,
God


And if you don't fucking even fucking know what I'm talking about here, read this, you blerdnose doucheface, and get the fuck with it, douchey.

Dear Evil Discussor... Who would you like to hump this hump day?

Maybe it's because of your soft, silky voice. Or the fact that you might be in New Jersey, or you might be in India. Maybe it's because your roaming and local and monthly and allotted in-network and out-of-network call calculations are impossible to understand. And I like a complicated woman. Maybe it's because you are usually no help whatsoever. And because when you put me on hold, I sometimes wonder if you're ever going to come back at all. Maybe it's because you mispronounce my name in ways I could have never imagined. Or maybe it's even because, once in a while, you mistake me for a woman. And that's somehow weirdly titillating.


Verizon Customer Service Girl, today, you are my Hump Day Hussy.



previous Hump Day Hussaliciousness
Hump Day Hussy #7, Concha Libre
Hump Day Hussy #6, N.Y.P.D. Commissioner Ray Kelly
Hump Day Hussy #5, Woman in the Next Cubicle
Hump Day Hussy #4, A 60 Minutes Hump Day Hussathon
Hump Day Hussy #3, Lucy Van Pelt
Hump Day Hussy #2, Soledad O'Brien
Hump Day Hussy #1, Phoebe Cates

Dear Evil Discussor... Why aren't you writing a post about the fact that you had an emergency appendectomy a couple of weeks ago?

Maybe because my readers want comedy gold. Not heart wrenching human drama. They want gags and laffs, not pains and aches. They want comedic diarrhea, not real diarrhea. They don't want to hear about my insanely painful belly pains, how I thought I was just having the world's worst stomach ache because of the night before's assorted ingestion of beer, wine, cheese, creamy pasta, turkey sausage, an ice cream cookie, vodka, a bunch of olives, and then some ice cream cake. Yes. You heard me right. Two ice cream desserts. I know how to party.

I could tell them about my little jaunt to the ER. The discovery of a perforated appendix. My subsequent immediate surgery. Followed by my four days of surreally surreal recovery, walking down the hospital hallways with an IV in my arm, and my asscrack hanging loose for alls to see. But they don't want to hear about that. Well, maybe they want to hear about my asscrack. And asscracks in general. But not the rest of it. They don't want to hear about that lame stuff. They want to hear about douchebags. And assholery. Cocks. And also penises. They want to hear about fucknoses and blerds. About cocks again. And maybe even some vaginas. They want hussies and hussaliciousness. They want me to be the Blogstar that I am. Not the whining appendix-less puppy that sometimes cries his poor, sad, broken, appendix-less puppy self to bed at night. They want evil. Evilness. Evilocity. Evilociousness. Evilaciouscrazyawesomeness. They want hilarity. Pseudo-hilarious hilarity. Horribly hilarious hilarfiousness. Yes, hilarfiousness.

Why? Because they're my readers. And I made them that way. That's right. I made them in my own, beautiful, hilarfious image.

E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Is it Cheese Fries Week on Evil Discussor blog?

Yes! It is!

First three commenters win a free plate of cheese fries!

Plus two tickets to see Blue Man Group at the Mohegan Sun Arena, Wednesday, September 27.

Dear Evil Discussor... Yes, but what about cheese fries with GRAVY??

You are right. So right. How foolish of me. Cheese fries are good. But cheese fries with gravy is so much more better good. For shame. To forget my greatest ally. My bestest friend. My secret confidante. Gravy. You know how much I love you, Gravy, don't you? No? Haven't I told you? How much I enjoy dipping things in you and then eating them? Yes, I believe I sort of have. But I should tell you so much more often.

I live for Gravy, see. I live and die by the sword of Gravy. Gravy is my everything. I even capitalize Gravy. I once made love to Gravy for two whole straight days without stopping. Fuck, I mean, my middle name is Gravy. Honestly. Evil Augustine Jeremiah Gravy Von Discussor The Third. Gravy with fries, even without any sort of cheese, is good by me. Nay, great by me. Greater than great even. Great is too small of a word for something so magically deliciously wonderfully wonderful. We must find new words for something as fucktastically diptastic as gravy. A whole new language and alphabet might be necessary. Maybe even Wingdings can finally come in handy. $%^^^^^&@@@@@@&&^^$!$##@%????©?´¨«?ß©ß僩´???¨??©??å…?å˜?ß?種ç¨ç¥®å©®ƒçå©??¨ˆç¬åæçœåø®¨çœø??®¨çæœ??ç??ß©ç?ßå©?ç??©åß???ç©ßå???ç©åß???ç????•?. That's how good gravy is. It can pretty much only be described using symbols. And other things. It can only really be spoken of using guttural sounds and clicks.

Gravy is the graviest. Gravy is the antidote to all of the world's worldy ills. All of them. Greenhouse gases? Famine? Pestilence? Locusts? Death? You are no match for Gravy. Gravy is the greatest invention ever invented. Greater than the wheel. Greater than electricity. Yes, greater even than light. Does light fill your belly with its chunkity liquidy tasty goodness? No. But does gravy brighten up your every day? Yes. Yes of course it does. And fuckit, the more gravy skin the better. The better to de-hymenize Gravy with the very first fry poke. Because Gravy is a goddess. And you, a peasant. You worship in her tangy brownness. Gravy is better than a rainbow on a cloudy day. Better than a cool waterfall in the middle of the hot jungle. Better even than sex with me. Gravy is the answer. But what is the question? No one knows, stupid. Except for me. And this is it: If you had to pick one album to take with you to a desert island, what would it be? That's right. It would be Gravy. Because Gravy is God's greatest gift to mankind. And I, God's greatest gravy messenger.

E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... How much do you like cheese fries?

Sing slowly. And not unlike Neil Diamond.

Cheese fries
You are so very dear to me
Cheese fries
I love you so tenderly
Cheese fries
You know just who I am
I'm the kind of guy
who loves cheese fries
so much that
he'd make a pictogram


















































































































































































About cheese fries
I love you so fucking much
Cheese fries
So fucking crazy much
Cheese fries
I love you almost as much
As I love to see
two girls kissing
cause that's really hot
yeah that's crazy fucking hot


Hot like cheese fries
Cheese fries,
Cheese fries,
Cheese (octave up now) friiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesssssssssssssssss

Cheese fries,
E.D.