Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

D – Disheveled


Sometimes, some words stick. I mean, I know this word. Never used it in a conversation but yeah, I know it. And one morning, while I’m still trying to run the sleep out of my eyes, it comes to me. Maybe I dreamt of something, I don’t know. And it sticks, and it doesn’t go away. One day, two days, a week. It stays in my mind.

Is it because that’s how our life is? It’s not perfect, it’s not a straight line, it’s not a jog around the park. It’s messy, and untidy and altogether so grown up.

And maybe, why it doesn’t go is because that’s how the sex is.

Tell me, if it’s more than one, but less than two, is it plural?

We’ve been sex-ing for decades, then. Not making love, for all of it. Not fucking, for lot of it. But sex-ing, yes.

Our bed is disheveled. It starts from there. When was the last time we had sex on a made-up bed? When the door of the suite opened up to our honeymoon bed, probably. You’re tidier, but I’m messy. Messy wins, most of the time. And the pillows won’t align. And the mattress is so heavy, we can’t tuck the bedsheets in. Disheveled bed.

Clothes. We look worse than some of the peons in our respective organizations, and we know it and we can’t be bothered to change. It’s become ridiculous, now. And we take those same clothes off, now. Or we don’t. Nowadays, we don’t even need naked.

I love crumpling your clothes. Squeezing your breasts through a top, a slip, a bra. And the clothes, they crumple. All ironing is lost. And our pants are down on the floor, always. I don’t know how, they never remain on the bed, do they? And shirts, they crumple.

I seem to be getting warmer. I really do feel so. Why did it stick? Disheveled?

My beard. Unkempt for a month. No time, no time. No desire. It mimics my hair, curls away at all places. Errant strings move out of place, a cacophony of chaos.

And I’m down between your legs, and my beard is disheveled.  And so is your bush.  Unkempt, grown. No time, no time, no time to shave. You or me.

Pussy juice, pussy juice. So sweet, it sticks, on a beard, so wet it drips. And spreads all around your pussy, and I drink. No, I lick. My tongues. One, many, each hair of mine. Been so long, no time, no time.

And I spread it on your breasts, as I slobber on them. Only to suck it all in again.

And your hair’s all spread out now, and it’s disheveled. It comes on your face and you slap it back and I bury my head in it when I’m on top, and it falls on me when you’re on top, and it doesn’t matter what parlour you’ve been to, because it’s all over now.

Isn’t it tidiest when I cum? You cum, I hope you do. You don’t squirt. When I cum in you, it’s tidy. Nothing leaks out, usually. When you swallow, it’s tidier. Inside the condom, tidy. Neat little endings, bar the sweat. Lick, lick.

And as I wake to more happy mornings daily, now I know why it sticks. Disheveled, our life, my cock, your pussy, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.



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Yeah, No.

What I feel is – Not joy. The absence of happiness. Am I lonely? Am I Depressed?

I always maintained I did not care about money. Do I still? Can I still maintain that? And yet I left a perfectly cozy job – one that had crazy timings, minimum two weekends on the job in a month, shit pay, and unspoken, alluded-to future benefits but satisfaction of a job well done and the ability to speak your mind – for one that is almost the exact opposite. I became a whore – for the money. Paisa phek tamasha dekh. Now that I’ve got it do I feel any better? No. Is my life more comfortable? Not really. Do I have a bigger bank balance and savings? Yes. Shouldn’t that make me happy? I don’t know.

Im no longer a child, and yet I refuse to accept it. Even when I’ve got one of my own.

What am I? I’ve never introspected. I’ve done everything the wrong way around my entire life. Acted too old in childhood, too mature in teenage and now I behave like A child. Did this when I should have done that. And the other way round. Sometimes for years and years.

Joy. Sometime. Please let me feel some joy. Any joy.

Let me not welcome work in the middle of a party so I don’t have to make a pretence of dancing. Or speaking to other people.

I was a flirt who respected women too much when I should have been horny. And now that it’s time to pack it in I’m horny.

I cannot dance freely. I’ve bound myself so much that I’ve locked myself and thrown away the key. I cannot remember the last time I had a decent, witty, interesting conversation with a beautiful girl. I don’t even know how to talk anymore.

Confused confused confused.

What are my priorities? Do I even have any?

A role model? More like a scale model of a human being. The dimensions are ok, and expanding, but something’s off.

Is it too early for a mid life crisis? Or too late? Who knows?

I never know. Anything. I’m never sure. It’s a consequence of knowing that you can’t know everything.

And yet, obliviously confident people thrive. Not an iota of self-doubt.

My ability to hide is diminishing.

And the shittiest part is that I’m not actually lacking for anything. Everything’s fine. It really is. It’s just not joyful.

Only his smile gives me joy. That’s my one and only source of happiness. I treasure each one because nothing else gives me what that does.

I want to be strong for him. Please let me be.

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Bollywood Musings

Just a few random notes that have been on my mind forever for your Monday morning.
1. I’ve never ever gotten a ‘sexy’ vibe off Shraddha Kapoor. I mean, she’s got a bangin’ bod but she just looks like she wouldn’t know anything once you actually get into bed and then you have to kind of do all the work on your own and it just gets awkward you know. And you finish and she doesn’t and you know she hasn’t but she says she has and you just take it at face value and clean up and leave. You both end up miserable and never call each other again and when you meet it public it’s just the worst. Yeah, that one.
2. You know who’d be the best? Asin. I’m 100% sure of this. Besides the fact that’s she’s a Mallu, girl looks like she’d be a freakin’ storm in the sheets. Just look up any random pic. Do it. She knows exactly what the fuck she wants and how the fuck she wants it and how long she wants it for. Only trouble is you gotta be up to that level man. Freshers need not apply. Don’t disappoint her man.
3. Funnest? Alia. You’d both enjoy, there’d be laughs and giggles. She’d have a couple of tricks up her tongue, it’d just be a great time for everyone involved. As I said, fun times.
4. Aishwarya, man. For the 3 days a year she drops the Ice Queen routine, there’s not a woman in the country who comes close.


Anyone else you’d want? Besides everyone, of course.

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Acquaintances.  Rather, the elder one is. I don’t even know the younger one.

6 years or so? That’s how long I know them. Or of them.

I was in the elder one’s league once. There or thereabouts. We started playing different games, after a while. Leagues never crossed again.

She was pretty, all angular lines. Not the curvy type. Sharp. Eyes, chin, cheeks. Hips.

Younger one was a kid.

Time passes.

Happened upon them now. She’s still pretty but time comes for her. In the slightest of ways.

The lines aren’t as sharp. Hint of a smudge in her eyes. Slightest of curves in the cheeks. Hips just outside the margins. Loss of definition.

The younger one has grown. I’m an old relic for her. All lines, like what her sister was.

All will come… in time.

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Good News, everyone,  I found the perfect Bhabhi!

Before I unveil who she is, let me take a moment, on this auspicious Mahashivratri day, to explain in a few inadequate words, the concept of Bhabhi.

Who is a Bhabhi? 

A Bhabhi (always with a capital ‘B’) is a near-mythical creature existing in the minds of several Indian men of a certain age group, almost always associated with a curious mix of respectfulness and seductiveness. 

The concept of Bhabhi springs from the eternal human longing for incest, a longing certainly undiminished by the peculiar Indian cultural response towards anything sexual.

Who are the women closest to a typical horny young male? Mother, sisters, assorted cousins, and bhabhis. Now, every guy has his Bhabhi, from this group of bhabhis. The first three related by blood, but the Bhabhi? Someone from the outside, related only by marriage. Not very much older to you, but still not nearly as young as you. A Bhabhi is ‘safe’.

A Bhabhi is real, someone you can touch. Someone, whom you know has experience touching another man in his special place, in special ways. Someone who has been touched too, and not gently, you presume. You even hear them, sometimes.

However,  The Bhabhi, in this scenario, is unsatisfied, or not satisfied enough with her sex life. While everything on the surface might be going swimmingly well, whether she’s married to the most average guy in the city or the richest/handsomest dude in town, there are deep cravings within her that need to be satisfied. And fortunately for everyone, you have been given this special insight into this burden she bears, and you alone can bear it in the most manly way possible. (Sidebar: This was also why the Savita Bhabhi comics worked so brilliantly. They captured the essence of the Bhabhi in the body of a supermodel.)

Even more importantly – The Bhabhi, on her part, understands what your needs are, and considers it a part of her duties to relieve you. No matter if she feels guilty about it, no matter if that’s not what she knows is the right thing to do. If she’s going to be a part of this family, then goddammit, everyone’s going to be happy, if she can help it. And help it she can.

This works brilliantly both ways. Both of you, then, can fuck each other’s brains out, out of nothing more than this impersonal, heroic sense of duty.

The Bhabhi, has to be beautiful, but in a cute kind of way, rather than a hot kind of way. Approaching cute women is of course easier for you than approaching hot women. She had slimmed down for her marriage, but the weight’s coming back, and she knows it. Her husband must be a trier. He tries, and tries so hard, but he knows it, and she knows it, that he just doesn’t do it for her. This helps too. Its not really cheating, if the husband doesn’t even belong in the game, is it?

So who is this Bhabhi, who has made me stop looking, because dammit they broke the mould after she climbed out of it?


This lady, from the assorted Crompton Greaves ads.

Now, this is a slightly misleading pic. And this isn’t the ad where I sat, slightly agog, through 20 seconds of stunning  Perfect Bhabhi-ness. For real, I didn’t realize myself what the hell just happened. Only after I settled down for a bit did I realize that I had seen the Perfect-est Bhabhi ever.

That was this ad:

Just look at it! It encapsulates everything perfectly!

When we first see her, she’s thinking “Why’s he buying stuff for the house? He doesn’t know jack about what goes in this house. Has to be related to money, or maybe that nice Sindian guy told him about it. I like that guy, he always treats Mrs. ST so well. And she always looks so goddamned happy in the mornings… I wonder what they get up to?”

Anyways, moving on, she asks him, Have prices fallen so much that YOU have condescended to buy stuff for the house?


This moment – captured above – was when I realized I was onto something very special. You know how? There’s this favorite ratio of mine – Boob Size-to-Stomach Rolls – which is a trademarked ratio, of course, and as soon as I saw this, it just clicked. This is THE ideal BSSR ratio for the Perfect Bhabhi.

And just like that, I was hooked.

Next, in a typical husbandly manoeuvre, he asks her to guess. And she does this:



No one. Also, close-up BSSR.

She blurts out a number. It doesn’t matter what it is. From the time it takes her to give that look, to the time of her first guess, she realizes – at least he’s done this. At least he’s gotten some thing for this house, this room, which we share. Something where I did not need to nag him for days.

Against all her best instincts, her hopes begin to rise.

She’s almost… happy?


Before the inevitable, crushing realization. He’s just got one – for himself, for his side of the bed.

She pretends to laugh, and bends forward, so he cannot see her eyes.


And her clueless husband smiles, maybe even congratulating himself.


But you know… And I know. The truth cannot hide.

Come Bhabhi, come. Let us perform our respective duties, and let us not dither.



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Struggling with Lust

Why do men send dick pics?
A lot of women have wondered about this question since the camera phone was invented and sending data from one to the other became affordable. Yes, there might have been a few weirdos who would have taken the trouble to click a pic, then upload to their email and send it to a specific person, but I’m guessing they would have been few and far between. So when you got your hands on your camera phone is really where it all started.
But blaming a camera phone on man’s propensity to send dick pics is stupid. What is the primal urge in Man that makes him take out his phone in the middle of the night or in the middle of a conversation, or sometimes even uninvited, then point the camera towards his hopefully erect member, click, then send it to a woman?
I’ll tell you why. It’s because he is convinced, CONVINCED that she is attracted to his cock, only she doesn’t know it yet. And of course, she can’t or won’t muster up the courage to you know, just ask for it directly. So why not help the process along? As soon as she sees the cock, all her barriers of shame will be broken and hopefully, he can proceed to bumping his naughty bits to her naughty bits and making the world a better place for everyone involved.
And how do I know this? Because I came THIS DAMN CLOSE to doing it last night.
This is crazy. Or rather, was. Of all the fucking people in the fucking world, I should fucking know better. I wasn’t even drunk. No, it was just late, late at night and I’d finished talking to a fellow (fellee?) denizen of the underworld, one who’s ideas of sex and sexuality are along my lines and with whom I’ve been quite open in the past. Chapter closed, we were all on our merry ways. And then, near-disaster.
I have this crazy bad time when I shouldn’t be allowed within 10-feet of a mobile phone. That time happens when I’m almost, almost asleep and very, very horny. It happens rarely, but it happens. Mostly it happens in the morning, you know, but then I wake up proper and it passes. When it happens in the night, I usually wake up in the morning dreading what I’ve sent to female friends. I can’t seem to help it and I feel ashamed to admit it. The lust is absolutely overpowering and my defences are completely down.
I still remember what went through my head last night and its something like this. Hmmm, she’s hot. She kinda must be open about all this right. Wow, am I horny or what? I wonder what she’s upto now. She must be, wasn’t that a very charged conversation? I wonder if she’s rubbing one out. Damn that thing’s gotten big. If I offered to show it to her, she would take me up on it right? Like, what’s she going to lose? I’m not asking her to send me anything. Of course, I could hold her to a quid pro quo later. I’ll be glad if she rubs one out on seeing my dick. That ain’t a half-bad use. Who knows, she could send something of her own. We’re cool, we’re friends. It’ll be just like mutual masturbation….
And so on… The point is, once the thought entered my mind, it took on a mind of its own. There was a rush inside. My heart was beating faster, I was getting even more excited. And I knew, I just KNEW she wanted to see my dick. Like, for realsies.
This… doesn’t paint a very flattering picture. I come across as a Neanderthal. And all the while I can still hear a small voice inside saying, NO NO NO NO NO. It wasn’t in caps when I heard it last night though. It was a small, tiny, unusually clear but soft voice. All it said was, no she’s not interested in you. Not in you. Not in your dick. She’s probably already asleep. Don’t do it. Don’t embarrass yourself. Just for the love of God go to sleep. It’ll be ok when you wake up…
And thank god, thank GOD I decided to listen. I kept my phone far away for charging and went off to sleep.
If I hadn’t? What if a day comes when I’m slightly more sleepier and way more hornier? And there is no relationship angle in this. There’s absolutely nothing, no upside whatever, from any and all angles.
This sucks. I’ve always struggled with my lust but now I’m in a position where I cannot afford any slip-ups ever. I don’t want to be this pervert anymore and sometimes I find its taken over me in ways that I feel ashamed of.
Lord give me strength.

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Don’t Angry Me


Jesus fucking Christ, No.

I cannot deal with this shit again.

Can’t leave me in peace, can you?

Fuck you, Lhendup G. Bhutia, if that’s even a real name.

I didn’t want to come back, but you wouldn’t give me a choice, would you?

You had to go ahead and publish shit in a magazine I like without the least bit of background check, didn’t you?

Fine, let me do this shit all over again.

First, what caused this? Answer: This – Measuring the Indian Penis, a ‘feature’ in the latest issue of OPEN magazine, which was predictably followed by a smorgasbord of shit called “India Rising? Not so much” in Firstpost, which is so bad I’m not even going to link to it.

People, haven’t we been through this before? Did I not conclusively conclude that the Indian penis is definitely NOT an average of 4 inches? Sigh. Lhendup, please read. Someone, please point it out to Mr. Lhendup, who also seems to be the sole surviving relative of Mr. Phunsukh Wangdu.

I’m not being entirely fair. The meat of the article is quite interesting, i.e. the part excluding the first two paragraphs and the last three. This ‘meaty’ part is where he describes the sole(?) study undertaken in India to study penile lengths. Its quite nicely done. Go and read. I also found it extremely amusing that that Govt. of India is so hot-and-bothered about “frequent reports of condom slippage”. Right, because that’s among the Top 5% of problems faced by our country. Yes, I know, health implications, AIDS, population control, but really? Condom slippage is a problem? Did anyone at the Union Ministry of Health actually try putting on one or even *shudder* try out a few in practice? If condom slippage is a problem, you study the girth, not the length, right? Now, I’m no scientist and please prove me wrong, but it seems kinda obvious, doesn’t it? Also, the scientists completed the report and submitted it to the government, which (according to the article) did zilch about it. Taxpayers money at work people! (Also, in my totally unscientific opinion, the main problem is not condom slippage, but rather condom tears, the causes and solutions of which are completely, utterly different. You know what, let me give you the solution, with me being so magnanimous and all. It starts with ‘More’ and ends with ‘Foreplay’. You’re welcome.)

Also, did you know that the government regulates the size of the condoms made in India? Point 8 of Section R of The Drugs and Cosmetics Act, 1940 has this glorious requirement:

8. Dimensions. – (1) the length when unrolled (excluding teat) shall be not less than. –
(i) 170mm
(ii) 180 mm
(2) The width of a condom which laid flat and measured at any point within 85 mm from
the open end shall be,
(i) 49 ± 2mm for 170mm length
(iii) 52 ± 2mm for 180mm length.

I love India. They’ve even provided variety, look! Does this mean I can produce a 170 mm condom with a 100 cm teat? Questions, questions…

Again, I veer off the topic. Lhendup speaks to a few people in the project and its quite charming and I (having previously done research on the subject at the University of Google) was quite fascinated by this part.

No, what irked me was this part:

A well-known British scientist, Richard Lynn, recently published a study that lists and compares the average erect penis lengths of men in 113 countries. His findings, which appeared in the journal Personality and Individual Differences, range from the large sizes of the Congolese (which at an average 7.1 inches rank No 1) to the lengths of South and North Koreans, which average a little more than half that figure (at 3.8 inches, the smallest). Indians were part of the study too, but, with an average of just 4 inches, rank just above Koreans and Cambodians (3.9 inches), sharing the 110th spot with Thais (also 4 inches).

The source of Lynn’s data on Indian penis lengths is a little-known study called ‘Study on proper length and breadth specification for condoms based on anthropometric measurement’, which began with grand ambitions more than a decade ago and then slid into obscurity.

What Mr. Lhendup has done, is basically take material from some British newspapers, which first reported this study, and reprint them as gospel truth. And that too, without including the most critical part of those reports (IMHO) where other scientists say, “Cool study bro, too bad its on shit data.” Lhendup, for the sake of our penises, couldn’t you have included that?

Or what about the study itself? Its been published in a prestigious scientific journal, so of course it must be absolutely, positively correct, right? WRONG! If you had bothered to read the actual study and exhibited a bit of curiosity and maybe an hour of googling, maybe I wouldn’t have had to get all hot and bothered.

Here, knock yourselves out.


Page 1


Page 2


Page 3


Page 4


Page 5

(You can get the pdf here.)

Now, Lynn’s study attempts to provide some kind of proof for a theory of race differences called r-K life history, which, after reading up on, seemed slightly racist to me, but hey, what do I know? Now in the introduction itself, Lynn has reported another great penis-measurer Rushton who has come up with these numbers in his 1987 report:

Orientals, 4 to 5.5 in. in length and 1.25 in. in diameter;
Caucasians, 5.5 to 6 in. in length and 1.5 in. in diameter;
Blacks, 6.25 to 8 in. in length and 2 in. in diameter.

That’s pretty damning, isn’t it? A clear-cut measurement? WRONG! Rushton has (according to this blog post) taken his ‘facts’ from a book “A French Army Surgeon” published in 1898 and which also happens to be the No. 1 reference in Lynn’s paper. That’s what we’re going on, people. A single, solitary Frenchman’s view of the world’s penises.

The book’s actual name is “Untrodden fields of anthropology : observations on the esoteric manners and customs of semi-civilized peoples”. That should probably give you a clue mister. Probably. Oh, and you can download that book here.

Let us move on, what other sources does Lynn have? Oh, one of the greatest scientific treatises of our time, the collection of stories, ‘One Thousand and One Nights’. What? What do you mean, its not a science journal? Fuck you. My penis longest. Wait, there’s photographic evidence too? Taken as recently as 1929, you say? I should probably admit defeat then, shouldn’t I?

Now from what I have researched (googled), it seems this Rushton penis-measuring was not taken kindly by other scientists because (a) they wanted to measure penises themselves and (b) it was a pile of horseshit. So Lynn feels for his man-crush Rushton and comes up with new evidence to tell us IN YOUR FACE SUCKERS. I ❤ RUSHTON. What’s that, you ask?

First, is a work by Dr. Donald Templer, a self-published book which unfortunately I haven’t been able to find, which reviews (not measures) a number of studies on penis length (flaccid and stretched, strangely not erect). So basically, Templer has reviewed a few sources (25, as per this other fascinating study) and come up with his numbers. Two things about this. One, Both Templer and Lynn are members of American Renaissance, which sure as hell looks to me to be a racist organization, which kind of leads me to doubt his sources and two, if you believe the flaccid penis has any correlation with the eventual size of the erect penis, well, why don’t you come snuggle up to me naked so that I can test my virtue?

Lynn’s second source is this link: http://www.targetmap.com/viewer.aspx?reportId=3073. No, seriously. That’s his source. Haven’t we seen that somewhere before? Oh yes, when we fucked its basis here. (Linkbait). I shouldn’t have to do this again.

And third. Its this webpage here: http://www.everyoneweb.com/worldpenissize/. Do you really want to know what that page is? It is just a tabular listing of the data of the second source. In fact, it is actually the source of the data in the map above. Circlejerk, anyone? And what are its sources? Go through them. You’ll find gems like: “The relation between sexual orientation and penile size”, “The Relationship Among Height, Penile Length, and Foot Size”, “Of fingers, toes and penises”, “Male teenagers copulate earlier in the USA”, “Penile length in the flaccid and erect states: guidelines for penile augmentation”,  “Phallus in Wonderland”, “Why does so much ancient Greek art feature males with small genitalia?”, “Size does matter (to gays)” and my joint-favourites: “Research says erect gay penises are bigger” and “The size of things to come”. The last one’s a doozy.

Basically, the study is shite. And this humongous pile of crap was actually published in a scientific journal. Astounding.

That all this is reported and given so much publicity without a second thought, is evidence that our baser instincts take precedence over all others. (I’m rambling, bear with me.)

Now the second part of my beef with the OPEN article. The last three paragraphs simply regurgitate the conclusions/findings of the study. Brother, in the flow of the article you write this, in this order:

1. Average Indian penis size according to Lynn = 4 inches

2. Average Indian penis size according to the only doctor of the study which formed the basis of Lynn’s report who was willing to go on record = 4.7 inches (sample size: 200 people)

3. Average Indian (Keralian) penis size according to an independent study = 5.08 inches (sample size: 93 people)

While reviewing this article, did you not think there was anything fishy about this? I mean, COME ON. Kerala people have 5-inch penises. We’re short, dark and stocky. If we go around with 5-inch cocks, can you imagine what the Jats and Kashmiris are lugging around? Our average can only go up right? We can blame Mumbai’s low average on Bangladeshi immigrants. They’re shorter than us anyway.

Here, read this: The Penile Economics of Ethnicity. It gives a far less belligerent and far more nuanced rebuttal of Rushton’s and Lynn’s theories than what I could attempt. Long story short (and I’m sensationalizing here), there exists actual hard data to suggest that Indian penises might actually be longer than American ones. Go suck on that RushLynn.

LGBt, I get you, bro. You saw that article, thought ‘Hey, how did anyone actually come up with that number?’, then saw the source and BOOM!, you dug up the (fascinating) story of how that study came to be in the first place and that’s why you’re a journalist and you get these stories. Its just that, couldn’t you have been a bit more sensitive towards my penis? He has feelings too.


People have their peeves. This is mine. Yes, it’s childish and downright insecure to go up in arms whenever someone flashes around these numbers. But you know what bugs me? Deep down, most Indian guys have accepted that their penises (penii?) are smaller than their western or african counterparts. No. They’re not. I can’t go around dropping my trousers everytime someone suggests that Indian men (indirectly: me) have a small penis. Which we (and indirectly: I) do not. Can you imagine the brouhaha if someone came up with a study that says Indian women have spacious vaginas? Come to think of it, a French guy did. Oh wait, that book wouldn’t be “Untrodden fields of anthropology : observations on the esoteric manners and customs of semi-civilized peoples”, would it? Oh yes, it would. That never caught on. Indian men, small penis, did.

Has any other organ been so ridiculed as the penis? Vaginas are untouchable, as the ‘Clean & Dry’ and ’18 Again’ makers found out. This reverse-discrimination has to be stopped. (Fuck, I just realized I sound like a brainless internet zombie ranter. I’ll stop here.)

All I have to say is: Rise up, fellow countrymen.


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