Friends, at thirty-one, you're better off dead. I'd blow my cranium off with a 12-gauge shotgun were I not afraid of ending up in Rotten.
I woke up today realizing that I'm practically an old man, judging by the way the media worships jailbait. It's all around us... on the idiot box, in magazines, towering upon us on billboards as if they're the fruit of Paul Bunyan's colossal loins: jailbait. And when teenagers start advertising their blossoming sexuality, who could blame us senior citizens for having filthy thoughts?
The advances in modern nutritional science aren't helping me curb my depravity either. I ask: what do mothers FEED their daughters these days? And do they even suspect what it does to us? Seeing the curves on these children, the angels would sigh. Grown men would weep. The Trojan army would cast aside its warlike ways and form emo bands.
Yet it's not really fair to blame the frustrations of heterosexual male thirty-somethings entirely on better nutrition. Our venerated forefathers share as much of the guilt. While our ancestors were locking horns to decide who gets the cheesecake with the hooters titties-up on the cave floor, they failed to notice that the genetic strain of titless wonders was dying out due to natural selection. This resulted into subsequent generations of children developing magnificent yayas at a much earlier age and, thus, an increase in the incidence of adults jerking off at teenybopper magazines.
The greatest sinner, however, is media itself. The enhancements modern couture bestows upon the delicious weapons of grown women are shockingly just as effective upon adolescents. Babyfat suddenly stopped looking like a rude guest still lingering around after the party's over. Babyfat became sexy.
All this intellectualization, though, is just an attempt to explain why teenage vacuity suddenly seems desirable to a man of my years. The question I SHOULD be asking is: who do I need to kill to get some of that action?
Listen. I've wasted my youth on artistic pursuits instead of getting laid and now I've come to grasp the truth that all my actions will mean nothing in the grand scheme of the universe. Nothing. The universe doesn't like us. Dust in the wind, gentlemen, dust in the fucking wind. My advice to the young? Forget about art. Forget about revolutions. Forget about finding a cure to cancer. These noble quests can be pursued when you're old and impotent. The pressing matter right now is to get laid, young man! Get laid like your life depends upon it!
Given this situation, what is an old man in the last mile of his sexual powers to do? Is it all over for me? Is the only way I can get a seventeen-year-old to do the nasty fandango on my aging, palsied pecker is by jerking off to the bizarre antics of Japanese AV superstars that I've downloaded from the net?
Verily, my bitch of a muse tells me, verily I say unto you, what you have lost you have regained in your twilight. For with age comes the greatest gift: that of wisdom.
You know what I say? I say shove wisdom up your hairy ass. I'd rather be stuffing the awe of Jehovah into a minor's orifices, thankya and may it do ya fine. And if you don't agree, screw you and screw the horse you rode in on.
Thus, like an epiphany on the road to Damascus, I've discovered the final, aye, the GREATEST enterprise upon which I will ever embark in my brief life. I, Squid Villanueva, have decided to recapture my misspent youth by getting as much teenage pussy as I can stick my grubby little member into. I'm not going to be picky. A glue-sniffing fourteen-year-old with barely serviceable tits can be as entertaining as Catholic school chinadoll who'd screw anything just because Daddy doesn't pay enough attention.
At least, it'll take my mind off from picking up that 12-gauge shotgun.