I was sitting in my giant suburban house full of books and music CDs and CD-ROMs and various other disc and cartridge related media, along with my giant TV and five fish tanks, with my walls covered in family photos and my garage full of lawn care equipment, wondering to myself: "Is this it? Am I just going to keep filling this big house up with more and more toys for the kids and books I'm never going to read? And what if the government collapses along with the power grid?"
It was about the time that black family bought the house two doors down that I realized what I really wanted to do was to simplify and downsize and build a tiny house in the woods somewhere I could cram full of sleazy fuckbooks. I could customize it exactly to my liking and I could hide all of the ugly little clutter of modern life, like wireless game controllers and chip clips, inside a series of hand-crafted compartments. I wanted it to be just me and my dog again, living out in the middle of nowhere, completely unzoned and far away from anything like postal employees or African American teenagers. Able to yank out a copy of Club or Oui and crank out a jam delivery whenever the urge hit me.
Yep, just me and my dog, Herc, and the woodland night, enjoying the simple life and waiting for the complete collapse of human civilization. Oh, it's coming. All the middle aged white guys who live alone in tiny houses in my tiny house Yahoo group agree that the world is ending.
My dang wife wouldn't believe me. She told me my tiny house was stupid and she was a grown woman who wouldn't sleep in a loft bed you have to slide into like a pancake. She told me to get over my fear of minorities and stop trying to find a new place to run and hide. She said I was crazy to still be buying porno mags in this day and age. She laughed in my face.
But now who is laughing? You can't even see a single utensil in my tiny house. Where are my shoes? Where are my hiking boots? What about my sandals? Funny you should ask, I've simplified them all into a single pair of Crocs and hidden them in a trapdoor compartment under the floor. I have bespoke drawers with concealed latches for every shirt I own and I own two shirts. One pair of pants. Two pairs of underwear. A Japanese survival jacket that I have to inflate with a bicycle pump. Three socks and a special sock dryer hanger.
Most days I just sit out on my porch - yep, my tiny house has a porch - watching nature and drinking herbal tea that I gathered and dried myself from plants that the Internet told me were safe. I have convinced myself thistles taste good by sweetening them with just a little bit of 30 dollar honey I bought from Brooklyn. I have solar panels on the roof of my tiny house to power my LED lights and I spend most evenings working on more cabinets and swing arm lamps and little nooks for me to put rolled up copies of Hustler.
Actually, since I divorced my wife and don't have to worry about my kids messing around in my tiny house, most available compartments have been filled with copies of Hustler, Genesis, Swank, Penthouse, and Asian Fever.
Funny enough, I caught the real Asian Fever from drinking water that had collected at the bottom of a trash bag full of rotten vegetables. Which is how I get my water. The porno magazine is great, but I have to give a big thumbs down to the disease.
I know what you're thinking. You're looking at me living alone with my dog in my Tiny House with its magnificent cabinets and secret slots for a variety of crinkled up flogger mags and you want to know how I plan to survive when I can't drive into town and get groceries because the government and power grid have collapsed.
The answer is simple: I am digging a pit next to my tiny house to bury enough groceries and porno magazines to last me for the next twenty years. If I run out of food, I figure I can trade some of my pornography for more food. I am operating under the assumption that in the post-civilization that appears there will be only the crudest forms of pornography; titty dolls made out of rags, drawings of buttholes, corn cobs with the word "penis" carved into them. That sort of thing. My cache of uncensored pre-collapse self-abuse manuals will turn me into a king.
It may seem like a lonely life, out here in this little house that lacks many of the distractions of modern civilization and breathing air that consists almost 90% of my dog's farts. You think I have given so much up, from my DVR to my entire family, just to live alone with a bunch of dirty magazines.
I say, when you subtract a negative, you add a positive. By simplifying, I have enlarged my world. It sure doesn't feel like a tiny house when I'm sitting on that porch watching the sun rise, my dog at my feet and one of those really dirty European piss mags spread out on my lap while I punch my dick like it has information that can save lives.
Oh, no, this house feels just right.
This libtard terminator keeps asking for guns that don't exist and I may have to close early out of frustration.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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