Some well-meaning motherfucker sent me a link to the latest digital short bullshit from Saturday Night Live, a show so past its prime it makes Travolta look like fresh hunk-meat.

Sure, the show still has funny moments, but so do those 200-hour nature documentaries hosted by Sir David got-damn Attenborough. Mostly, SNL is an exercise in time-wasting. The audience of your average, non-Tina Fey episode would be just as amused by playing with some got-damn string or making prank calls to local politicians.

Anyway, the link I got sent is a music video about guys who prematurely ejaculate into their trousers. It stars Justin Timberlake, Adam Something-or-Other, the illegitimate son of Squiggy, and the chick who played Meadow Soprano (herself obviously the queen of premature endings).

Check this shit out:



Now tell me what is so got-damn funny? I admit “jizz” is one amusing got-damn word. It’s right up there with “underpants” and “teetotaler,” but it ain’t as motherfucking amusing as “bovicide” or “kumquat.” And while you’re tittering over the fact that these dumbasses somehow convinced NBC to let them say “jizz” five hundred times, keep this in mind: these sexually-stunted man-boys are being denied the sultry, sensuous delights of a woman’s hoo-hoo. Sure, they might get off, but they ain’t never gonna know what it’s like to hear a chick say, “Oh my god, Mr. Jackson, you made me feel like a natural woman all over my sheets.”

What gets these fuckpants off in this video? Grapes. Wind. A motherfucking phone call. Grocery-purchasing. Which ain’t necessarily a bad thing. Shit, I get off just looking at silverware sometimes, but got-damn! I also know how to slip off my sticky briefs and continue the job set before me; I don’t stand there saying, “Aw shit, baby, you touched my butt, and you know how sensitive I am down there!”

Fact is, this video is a motherfucking tragedy. Young men today have too much instant got-damn gratification. If it don’t cook faster than microwave popcorn, they ain’t able to fuck it. These dipshits have decided that the “popcorn” button on their sex partners is hidden somewhere in a got-damn body cavity and ain’t worth the effort to find, so they’d rather just soil up some perfectly good underwear, call it a got-damn night, and nuke themselves some Orville while they’re sitting comfortably in their computer chairs.

Fuck that shit. You young bastards should start aspiring to sex of Sting-level durations rather than passing around this depressing excuse of modern male sexual inadequacy. Don’t send me this shit again. You’re wasting my “satisfying Mrs. Sam Jack” time.