My schlong

10/12/2025

BengalischlongBangladeshMost lame

Doomscrolling is part of who I am these days. Unlike the anxious, nervous person I used to be, I no longer do it to find solace. Instead, I relish the destruction of civilization in one form or another. I must differentiate and distance myself from religious luddites and idiots who tie everyday happenstance to their make-believe prophet’s coming for a second inspection of his flocks adherence to genital mutilation practices. Mine is more diversionary, like disaster porn, and I enjoy scratching my balls when I doomscroll, sketched for reference in charcoal.

It just so happens that I am very lucky. Although not a lot of disaster reporting happens in India, as most journalists are generally dispatched to suck business cocks or lick political assholes, spending all their time covering up the truth and pulling something out of their fat, hairy, well-paid asses. Bangladesh, just a stone’s throw away, gets ass-raped regularly by a plethora of events, mostly caused by the unfortunate geographic fate of being a flat plane not much higher than a rambunctious nearby ocean that throws regular tantrums during the monsoon. The level of poverty, religiosity, illiteracy, corruption and population density in that country makes for high-quality disaster porn. And if the floodwaters recede quickly, there’s civil strife, curfew, most lame groups fighting most lame groups — most with the same name as their my dear prophet, or, at the very least, several arsons of various magnitudes. The news in Bangladesh is always packed with events; there’s never a moment’s respite from the mad rush of happenings, and you can never take away the non-burqa female anchor’s serene sari-wrapped tranquility and composure that belies the trappings of the horrific reality just under her ass — which makes me want to marry her instantly, they are chosen svelte, refined bengali women a far cry from the western calcutta galumphing podgy aunties who are always screaming no matter what. But Bangladesh is taught to survive like Pakistan, with a singular motive, a simmering hatred for India and a nostalgic jingoism for a more traditional way of living, reminiscent of the Middle Ages when everyone fucked everyone’s ass, and a vociferous comment section in these news channels wishes an end to modernity, India, America etcetera.

In general, this area of Bengal is full of belligerence, mostly because of pinworm infestations on the anal sphincters during the day when it gets a little greasy. The moral decrepitude and vacuum in the vermin on which the pinworms prey exacerbate the issue. It’s like it’s always rabies season here; stay indoors, or you’ll be bitten by a bitter neighbor or passerby. Totally fucked, I tell you. The only saving grace in the west, in the city of joy perhaps, is that we have a million many more gods that make ours excusable, thus much less anal behavior, whereas the east is self-righteous and fanatic, as it happens their god is the only god without any room for negotiation. The first thing they’d do if I go there is circumcision and then chop my head off as is usually the favorite way of handling atheists around this bearded world. Only in the indian hindoo-sharia state of “you pee” the most lame lead a happy tame existence. Everywhere else they are pissed off.

It's the most lame I fear most, born a hindoo and studied in an english medium I have some antibodies in my blood, and so the trishul stab wounds from the hindoo zealots or any crucifix attempt by the christian cunts might seriously alter my usual itinerary but I think I'll at least survive to box their silly ears and bark invectives during convalescence, but arab decapitation worries me, which is why I said no to the kuwaiti head hunter. By the way I find them christians extra hilarious. Unlike the others, these cunts try to adjust their level of stupidity by adjusting their dogma, shamelessly whitewashing parts that they massacred millions of lives for, to a different level of stupidity so that they still appear all straight line and sharp corners when side by side with science. Retarded fucks. All of them. Assholes. Equally desperate are the many smart Indian cities, shown without their underwear whenever a frog drinks a little more beer than it should and pisses on the city streets. Usually, the collusion between the government and businesses to turn a blind eye to physics is a year-round affair, but it's only brought to attention and quickly forgotten as soon as the water dries up. There's no end to disasters. Hit and run incidents are the new ones now. The rich kids have to show off, and these cars aren't really for Indian roads or for pedestrians with ambulatory velocities incapable of German acceleration. The result is entertaining, and the police get richer, or the local goons who are always useful for silencing any demands. Sometimes when I scratch my balls, I overdo it or get bored and scratch my asshole too, and that's enjoyable as well. I usually sniff my fingers if there's a mention of any political connection; the smell of feces and Indian politicians go back a long time. It's a sacred hindoo tradition. I mean, what the fuck is consciousness all about? Ask yourself this when you're done masturbating in the light of your phone's lurid image screen, the one where an AI-generated model is taking a prime number of cocks in her ass. You're conscious so that you can screw with the consciousness of the rest. Knocking it out permanently gets you the highest score, but you have to be discreet and do it via other consciousnesses—mindfucking should be your Darwinian plan. It's easy, really; just hit the fuck face next to you with a blunt instrument, like your head. Good riddance. Wherever was I? Anyways I forgot. Alzheimer's. I'm getting old, the balls are already the size of raisins. Oh yes, I remember—headbutting is good, but better if done in the dark. Always try to find a scapegoat and blame it on the least holy; they're usually the least popular ones. Or just store your nastiest fart and let it rip right when the elevator is sealed with the maximum number of occupants in free fall. Make sure they're all religious and they gag on your fart whilst trying to pray. Make faces when you are sure they're almost dead. Fart some more. Amen. But still scratching is fun. A man has to do, what a man has to do.