Your Pathetic Cries for a True Alpha-Male Have Been Answered

Your Pathetic Cries for a True Alpha-Male Have Been Answered - 26 (Seoul)
Date: 2009-12-30, 12:34AM KT

Like a lot of people, I’ve come to Korea for the money. Now, I’m no bum, but reparations, class-action lawsuits, legal fees, and a steady supply of replacement kidneys starts to add up. I needed a little extra cash, so I came here. I would have asked my mom, but I of all people know that asking mother for anything is like asking a favor of the mafia – she’ll never let me forget about it, and my girlfriend is beginning to run out of fingers since I decided to start betting on the Denver Nuggets. My mother still thinks I owe her from the time she was supposed to have triplets and, instead, out I popped fourteen pounds heavier and an only child. What she’s always failed to realize is that instead of paying to raise three kids, she only had to pay for one, which is like a net profit of one kid.

I’ve noticed a lot of gynos post here seeking real he-men. Macho guys. Hard-drinking, hard-fighting, hard-loving man-mountains. Let me tell you, most of those guys are listening to John Mayer and admiring themselves in a full-length mirror wearing lady’s lingerie. I’m the real deal. If you don’t believe it, just let me tell you about the day I had today, starting with the airport:

“Thirteen.” I say to the cute girl at the check-in counter, adding with a wink “Inches, not bags.”

“Sir…you can’t check all these bags.”

“Why not, it says right in you commercial ‘no extra fee for additional bags’. You know, the one where one colored guy is talking to another colored guy about how he needs to get from Chicago to Boston in time to see his colored daughter’s recital? That one.”

“Well, perhaps you don’t need all these bags. Your itinerary says you’ll only be away for a week.”

I clench my jaw and glare. Reflexively, my hand slides down my thigh for the length of pipe I always keep there.

“What’s in all these bags, anyways?” She asks unsteadily.

“Cheese.”

“Cheese?”

“Yeah, you know – cheddar, Swiss, jarlsburg, parmesan. There’s no telling when some god-forsaken savage country won’t have a proper selection of cheese. It’s all I eat.”

As I say this a tooth falls out and bounces across the counter towards her. I pick it up with a tissue and put it in my breast pocket with the others.

“Don’t worry, I’m a fourth of an once under the total weight for it to be subject to import duties. I’ve read my airport policies. Maybe you should, too.”

“Well sir,” She glared with poorly-concealed indignation, “perhaps you could make some space by clearing out some different luggage…”

“Uh uh. Bags nine through eleven have all my glue. With any luck, it should be enough to get me through the safety instructions. Hey, I just realized I said nine-eleven in an airport. Remember 9/11? Huh, remember that, when all those planes got hijacked and all those people died? Wasn’t that totally lame?”

“And the other bags?” She gulps fearfully.

"Mostly hypodermic needles."

“Oh!”

"For my insulin, of course. It’s always important to stay well-insulated up there at 30,000 feet… if…you…know…what…I…mean."

“Yes, of course.” I can hear the plastic of the counter cracking where she is digging her nails into it.

“So, you see, I really need every one of those bags. Of course, if there’s a problem I could always alert your manager to the fact that you’ve addressed me by several racial slurs since we’ve begun this conversation.”

“But that isn’t true!”

“Yeah, but is it worth the hassle?”

“He’d never believe you.”

“Excuse me, sir!” I call to the portly she-male type gaying it up a few feet away. “I want to make a complaint. Your employee has repeatedly referred to me as ‘Shiloc’ and insisted that I should not be taking a flight to Korea, but rather a cattle-car to Auschwitz.”

“Fine!” She hisses, stamping my luggage tags. “Just go away!”

The flight isn’t much better, I’m afraid.

I plug the cheap headphones into the armrest of the seat. The classical station is the only one that plays anything even resembling music. The rest are playing what sounds like a mixture of light rock/smooth jazz/Motown/delta blues/trance. It’s like having the entire cast of a Hair Club for Men commercial urinating in my ear. Partly from boredom, and partly from rage, I decide that the only way to make this flight less boring is to make my own entertainment. Twenty minutes later, I’m reciting my version of the battle of Agincourt to the enthralled passengers.

“Excuse me, sir.” Says one tranny-looking runt from row 11 – I have taught the other passengers to address me as sir or, failing that, Cardinal Vice-Doom. At first they were reluctant, but by now the memory of what happened to the others is still fresh in their minds. “But I was a history major in college and I don’t remember Agincourt being a battle between an army of samurais from the future and a horde of genetically-modified salamander people.”

I nod and say “I understand your concern and appreciate your willingness to speak up” as my finger glides over the button to depressurize the cabin in the vicinity of row 11.

A colon-cramping eight hours later and the plane finally lands. I make sure to shove my way to the front of the aisle to be the first to get off the plane. Overall, it wasn’t a terrible flight, but the re-circulated cigar smoke and glue-fumes has made the cabin feel a little claustrophobic.

I approach the customs officer and give him my heartiest hello. Still, I’m a little nervous – I always am around authority figures, because they’ve never gotten my sense of humor.

“Anything to declare today?” He asks condescendingly.

“Yes. I’ve been taking heroin and shooting little children from the jungle-gym in the park.”

The officer’s face flashes crimson. I slap myself on the forehead and chuckle at my mistake.

"Ahem, sorry. I meant I’ve been shooting heroin and taking little children from the jungle-gym in the park.”

Soon, all sixteen of my bags are lying open on the ground being torn apart by customs agents, who are making a huge deal over every little crossbow bolt and phial of ketamine. Meanwhile, I’m shackled to a chair while the customs officer asks me questions in a never-ending stream of verbal excrement.

“So, I’ve been looking up your file and it seems like you have a pretty lengthy criminal record.” He shrilled petulantly.

“Only a few traffic violations.”

“Really?”

He drops the file on my lap. The legs of the chair bow. I begin leafing through it, trying not to smile at all the fond memories contained therein.

“Why, this must be some other Dermitt McFury! I’ve never even been to half these places. Panama? Sounds like a made-up country to me.”

“I think the most disturbing thing is your many drug violations.”

“Slander! I never touch the stuff!”

“It says here you’ve been arrested 26 times on drug charges.”

“You misunderstand. They say ‘drug charges’ because I drug the kids from the sandbox to my van.”

“Either way, we’ll have to detain you… indefinitely.”

Suddenly, I turn to the page detailing my escapades in Kuala Lampur (spring break 03’). Suddenly reminded of what to do in these types of situations (arrested in a third-world country), I narrow my eyes at the customs officer and smile. He’s Korean, so his eyes are already narrowed, though I’m sure he reciprocates the gesture.

“Isn’t there just a fine I could pay… like, maybe right now? No use wasting our precious time with paperwork.”

The cop looks at me with understanding and we start talking business.

The last step is to get tested at the hospital. I hate hospitals. They’re full of sick people, and sick people are bad at two things: producing white blood cells, and staying out of my way. After what seemed like an eternity of shouting and shoving and hostage-taking, I’m finally face-to-face with the doctor, a short, tidy, hermaphroditic-looking Korean. He plunges the syringe into my arm and begins drawing blood.

“Hey, who put all that blood in my scotch!” I shout in horror.

Again, he is not amused. Authority figures – whether they’re cops, doctors, parole officers, or high-school teachers whose coffee you’ve been secretly urinating in for the last ten years – never know a good joke when they hear it. It’s like being a humorless cadaver is one of the job requirements.
So, the doctor comes back a little while later with a blustering red face. His hands are trembling a little. He’s brought two burly orderlies with him who have syringes full of, by the smell of it, sedatives.

“Mr. McFury,” The dykey doctor stutters, “you have every sexually transmitted disease known to science, and a few postulated to exist only in species of tropical fish.”

I wonder if this is a good time to bring up the fact I was just fired from the aquarium. I decide against it.

“Additionally, you appear to be stealing prescription pads from my desk drawer as I’m talking to you.”

“Go ahead,” I shout, “sic your goons on me. I guarantee you, whatever sedatives they have in those needles, I’ve got twice the amount of amphetamines in me to stay alert and fighting.”

“No, Mr. McFury, you misunderstand. These shots are for me. In the five minutes since meeting you, I have caught several of your communicable diseases. I’d put you in the ER, but I doubt you’d survive the trip across the hospital.”

“So, does that mean I can go?”

The doctor sits down and wrings his hand. An orderly gives him a jab of sedatives while he fumbles in his desk drawer for a bottle of Vodka.

“Yes…sure…whatever. I don’t care anymore. I can’t… can’t feel anything.”

Twelve hours, five murders, and two suicides later I’m finally in Korea. Now, you may be wondering what I gave the customs officer in exchange for my freedom. I gave him my cheese. My goddamn cheese, every last scrap except the emergency chunk of pepper-jack hidden in my rectal cavity (they never check there thoroughly enough). So, I’m pissed off and ornery and in dairy withdrawal – a perfect time for you to get an epic bang. So, if you want a real man capable of real cocksmanship, hit me up.




* Location: Seoul
* it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 1528830177

So This is the Post That Got Me Banned From Craigslist in Korea...

Come to Me Prince of the High Heavens! - 26 (Here)

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Date: 2009-12-22, 1:47PM KT

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So, I’ve been up for three days and now find myself typing this message, not wholly of my own volition. I suppose I’m lonely and could use somebody to be with me… after all, that’s why I started this whole thing, so I could finally meet a man. It wasn’t even the money. The money is nice, don’t get me wrong, but I really just wanted to get noticed, to be looked at with the same kind of lust I saw guys looking at the pretty girls in bars with.

I have a lot of free times on my hands since I don’t work. Okay, I DO work, but not what you would call a traditional job. I’m a test subject for Pfizer. I make about five-hundred dollars a week taking their new, experimental diet drug Dioxymorphil. Dioximorphil. It’s funny when you say it out loud. Dio. Spanish for God. Morph. Means change. Change. Have I changed into a god, or is this just one of those coincidences? I’ve been noticing a lot of coincidences lately.

“Looking for women, age eighteen to thirty-two, twenty to forty lbs overweight, for clinical test study”. That’s what the ad said. 500 bucks a month, nothing to sneeze at. I don’t sneeze anymore, by the way. I’ve just noticed that. My sneezes have gone the way of my ability to feel cold or have my period. I am no longer in possession of such human frailties. I’m becoming…something more.

The weight has just melted off since I’ve started the Dioxymorphil. I’m thin now, but strong. Just yesterday I slipped on a patch of ice and caught myself on an iron railing. When I looked I saw my hand had crushed the railing. And it isn’t just my body, either. If I stare, long and intensely, at anything it will, in time, smolder and burst into flames.

I see now that I am Tiamat.

I need a man to be my Apsu. All the world is my womb, and my oceans but amniotic seas. I am the womb of monsters, which shall crawl from all my dark places and abyssal seas to dart and gambol upon my body, to suckle upon the teats of nature from which flows my everlasting life. I need my Apsu. I need to open my earth-womb to you of the sky, and from that congress there shall be born Marduk, child of both earth and sky, champion, usurper, destined to wage battle upon me and slay my children and break my body into the firmament beneath your feet and foam lapping upon your mortal shores. It is a sacrifice I am willing to endure, for it is my destiny to be made into this new world, to have my flesh rendered clay to sculpt a new age of sky, sea, and earth.

Damn. Lost another tooth. Need more Dioxymorphil. Why won’t Pfizer call back? Is it because of the fire? It wasn’t my fault. That man shouldn’t have talked to me that way, shouldn’t have been so rude… ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuudddddde. That’s no way to treat one’s mother.

Come to me, my sky-clad all-father! My womb awaits your princely seed and the son who shall overthrow us! Help me set the cosmic order straight! Dioxymorphil!

Where Did That Post Go?

Recently, guest contributor and friend of the blog Exploder did a post which you may have discovered has mysteriously disappeared. The victim of the post found out about the blog and asked that the post be removed, as she believed it contained too much personal information which could be used to identify her. While I make every effort to protect the identities of our victims, some details are too important to leave out and still retain the integrity of the post. So, in keeping with the wishes of the young lady, I have removed the post.

Can Anyone Alleviate This Loneliness?

Can Anyone Alleviate This Loneliness? (Seoul)

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Date: 2009-12-14, 11:19PM KT

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Is there any way to alleviate this ache in my heart, one that longs for the company of a true friend? Too many times I have stared into the faces around me and seen mirth, astonishment, disgust, and fear. I wish for someone with whom I can feel comfortable and, in turn, will feel comfortable with me. It is to that end that I am reaching out here, hoping against all odds that there is someone out there with whom I can forge a real friendship. If all of this seems a little melodramatic, allow me to explain the circumstances which have brought about in me this terrible ennui.

My story begins many years ago… how many, I’m not entirely sure. There are large gaps in my recollection due to not always having been as keenly self-aware as the being you see before you today. I remember a tranquil and joyous childhood, roughhousing with my brothers and sisters, gamboling in the high grasses, and swinging from branch to branch before my weight became too great to allow for such endeavors. I remember one day lolling about the foliage at the riverside when I was approached by a creature I had never seen before. It was tall, nearly hairless, and carried about it all manner of implements my young mind could not comprehend. It seemed a friendly enough fellow, however, so I approached it with the uninhibited curiosity of youth. It held out its paw to me and said:

“Candy”

Timidly I snatched the colorful bauble from the creature’s hand and retreated to a safe distance to devour it. It was sweet – sweeter, in fact, than even the mangoes my older brothers shook from the tress after the monsoon rains. I approached the creature again, and again it held out the treat, repeating “Candy”.

This time, however, when I went for the sweet delicacy the man-creature withdrew its hand and repeated, with a tone of encouragement: “Candy”.

“Can-de” I mumbled back. I still don’t know why I said that. Perhaps I knew by some long-forgotten instinct that my asking is what the man wanted of me, and that he would surrender the prize if only I pleased him. The man did seem pleased, as well as astonished. Hurriedly he dug in his outer-skin and produced another shiny bauble which I hastily devoured. This bauble, I found, was quite different. Within moments my eyelids were drooping and I was drifting away into a slumber deeper than the waters of the Lethe!

When I awoke, I was rocking and bobbing quite uncomfortably in the hull of a ship. My captor introduced himself as Lord William MCaulley, chief primatologist of the London Academy of Natural Science.

The sea voyage was long and arduous, though I was never bored. In fact, Lord MCaulley spent every waking moment at my side, and I learned that by repeating what he said I would be rewarded with toys and sundry delicacies. Soon, I knew that if I were thirsty I should say “wah-ta”, and if hungry I should say “fud” and so forth. By the time I was taken to the cellar of his London study, I already had the vocabulary of a three-year-old child, thanks in no small part to Lord MCaulley’s erudition in the study of linguistics.

Those were my halcyon days, I believe. Though I missed my ancestral home, everything was so new, so fascinating, that I could not tear myself away from my studies. I was learning not just language, but reason as well – with every new word, a nascent mental concept was ascending into existence, and soon I found myself becoming aware of the reason for things, the scope of the world, and my own identity, things that I never could have pondered back in the cloud-wreathed jungles of my past.

Reading and writing were made available to me. Three years after my abduction I was reading The Times and discussing the latest cricket matches with my friend and mentor. It was on one such fateful day he said: “you are ready”.

The next day I was greeted by three men, all venerable in age and status, who came to stare at me from the other side of the iron bars.

“Hello.” I said. “My name is William Jr. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“And you.” Said one of the men, clearly taken aback. “Tell me, what color is a tabby-cat.”
“Why orange, sir.”
“And who is the King?” another one of the men put to me.
“Edward, sir, long life to him.”

And so the questions came for hours until finally the old gentlemen unruffled their coats and turned to my mentor, saying:

“Really William, this…thing you have here is no more than a clever beast. I could have taught a parrot to mimic human speech as well as you have this brute.” said one.

“This is a disgrace to the Academy of Natural Science, and you can be assured your post will come under review for it!” bellowed another.

“Put it in a sideshow and don’t trouble us with these parlor acts anymore!”

And with that they were gone, leaving my mentor speechless.

My friend and teacher took the man’s advice, if only to create publicity. He had tried to appeal to his peers and, failing that, decided to appeal to the masses instead. I hesitate to speak about this period of my life, for the humiliations were many. Every week my cage was unloaded onto the docks to be gawked at, mocked, and abused by throngs of common stevedores and fishmongers. The ruse worked well enough. Within a few months I was in the papers, and the Academy was forced by public opinion to review my legitimacy once more. Fortunately, Lord MCaulley had prepared me for this trial, and I was easily able to dazzle them with eloquent soliloquies from Marlowe; rhetoric from Aristotle; and the rapier wit of Wilde.

I became the toast of the town, the darling of London society. Especially, they all seemed amused at putting me in improbable situations, such as thronging around me with adoring inquiries as I struggled with tripping over my new coat-tails or keeping my head straight after drinking champagne. I was shaved, perfumed, and dressed in the latest fashions, as if such superficial changes could bring me closer to them, to whom I would always be a novelty.

As such, I am in search of woman to help me bear this loneliness. I am now a quite seasoned silverback, and would like a woman who is herself still of reproductive age. I’ve tried, when visiting society friends’ various private menageries, connecting with others of my kind held there in captivity, but it is of no use. They are every bit as dim-witted and unaware as I once was. The females ignore my ardent advances, and the silverbacks simply beat their chests and gnash their teeth at me menacingly. I am, sadly, a child of two worlds, understood or accepted by neither. Can you help me? Can you give me the peace that has eluded me since those carefree days clamoring up vines and tumbling down moss-covered hillsides? I’d prefer a hirsute woman with a stooped posture, sagital crest, and post-orbital ridges, though I promise I am not fickle about appearances. Hit me up!

• Location: Seoul
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 1509260118

Normal Guy Searching for a Good Woman

Normal Guy Searching for a Good Woman - 26 (Seoul)

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Date: 2009-12-05, 2:55AM KT

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Hi girls! I’ve never done this sort of thing before so… where to begin? I guess I could say I’m a pretty normal guy. I like sports, drinking beer, reading the occasional book, and good conversation. The latter, especially, is really important to me – no more boring girls, not at my age, not at this point in my life!

Physically, I’d describe myself as pretty average. I’m about 5’10”, 175 lbs, black hair. I try to dress well, though sometimes time and circumstances means I have to be a jeans-and-t-shirt kinda guy for the day. I really…really…arrrrgghhhhh

[Thank God I was able to break through! Please, ladies, don’t listen to him! He already has two women in the crawlspace. I couldn’t live with myself if he found a third. No, not yet! I…won’t… let… you win! Dr. Friedman, where are you? We need more of the serum. You’d know how to fix this. What should I…no…no…not yet!]

Ahem. Sorry about that. As I was saying, I really enjoy a laid-back time. Cuddling up on the couch, watching movies – I’m not really a bar/club/party guy. That doesn’t mean I don’t know how to have fu –

[Please, listen! I can’t control him much longer! For your safety, you must stay away! Kill me if you must… I’d rather die and take him with me than see him hurt another person -]

- Fool! How dare you! Dr. Friedman can’t help you anymore… I saw to that. I was always the stronger one! Now it is you who shall be doomed to exile in the limbo of my subconscious!

(Hello…? What’s all that noise? Are you fighting again, mommy and daddy?)

Oh great, you woke the kid up. And we’re not you’re mommy and daddy, dummy. They died fifteen years ago - or don’t you remember the fire?

[You can’t talk to him that way!]

(Mommy, daddy, please don’t fight! I’ll be good, I promise! Just don’t put me in the punishment box again… it’s so dark… in the punishment box…)

{CHOOOOOOOOCOLATE! ME WANT CHOOOOOOOOOCOLATE!}

Dammit, not this guy again.
[Dammit, not this guy again.]

{ME WANT CHOOOOOOOOOCOLATE! NOW NOW NOW!}

[You’ve left me no choice. I must destroy you…all of you - even if it means destroying myself.]

Hah! I’d like to see you try… wait, what are you doing? Stop that! Get our hand away from that knife! I said stop!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sorry about that ladies. Noisy…neighbors. Anyways, if any of you are interested in a chill date with a down-to-earth guy, just hit me up!

Location: Seoul
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 1494769805