Why Women Hate Men - The Blog

WWHM Crawls Back To Life

2009-12-11T06:20:00.000-08:00

Ladies and gentleman, welcome back to WWHM!

For those of you not yet familiar with our horrifying little corner of the digital world, WWHM extracts some of the most preposterously idiotic male personal ads ever to grace the pages of our beloved internet, re-posts the exact text of those ads onto our blog along with pertinent commentary, and hurls the results into a bloody, churning meat pit I like to call "my seasoned female readership."

Before you proceed, WWHM would like to issue a stern warning: Some of the personal ads you are about to read may cause you to gag, retch, heave, or relieve the contents of your stomach into a bag of Tostitos. Your vagina may twitch, shake, shudder, or perhaps rappel down your leg, grab a protein bar, and move to Idaho to start a new life harvesting potatoes. Regardless, by proceeding past this entry, you agree to not hold WWHM accountable for what may happen to your once unquenchable sex drive.

Please take note, WWHM contains extremely graphic and immature sexual content, so if you can't handle it, we strongly recommend you go here.

I'm your host, The Weasel, and yes, I am a man. Critics oft contend I produce WWHM solely as a vehicle to make myself look better than other men, yet I counter nothing could be further from the truth.

By my own admission, I am nothing but a small, sheepish and feeble excuse of a man, one so meek you might frequently find me crouched in the fetal position underneath my own bathroom sink, slowly nursing a pasty and congealed gruel of Cheez-its and Yuban from a second-hand YMCA parrot feeder. When introduced to an unknown female or even the non-aggressive, low-speed paw strike of a recently declawed kitten, I tend to spontaneously suffer from the unfortunate malady a four year-old Spanish boy might refer to as "los pantalones con poopy."

So whilst I wholly admit upfront I know next to nothing about women, I've learned at least enough throughout my years to identify when a grown man indeed knows absolutely nothing about women. We dedicate the success of WWHM to those men.

So let's cut through the shit already, shall we?

Here we go, folks, with our new featured personal ad in 3, ..... 2, ..... 1, ......

WWHM Blames Porn Vol. XXXXVI: The Lecture

2009-12-11T02:32:00.000-08:00

Do you have a pornstar appettite for sex?- 42M

Women get upset at men for watching porn but the truth is this is because men get tired of women that are not good in bed. We have fantasies about women and watch fantasy acts in porn because women won't participate in them in real life because most women aren't kinky or adventuorus. Also women in porn seem to enjoy performing oral sex on men but women in real life do not. Why doesn't a woman want to do something knowing that it pleased him so much?

Some women seem to enjoy sex a little bit but most women dont enjoy sex as much as women in porn do even if their acting. Most women forget about sex and don't like it and some women don't have any interest in sex at all. It's not as important to women and they don't want it so they are not good in bed or act uninterested in sex. Women in porn act like a man would want a woman to act in bed, they make it this way to appeal to men. They wear sexy outfits and men are turned on by this so it makes for a better sexual response in real life.

I am looking for an attractive and sexy woman with a pornstar sex drive and a sense of adventure. Maybe it is you? Me: 42, average looking, not ugly, 7 inchs long, 51/2 around, shaved. You must perform oral sex on me until I cum, it is hard to make me cum from oral sex so you will have your work cut out for you. Be dirty and wear your sexiest outfit!

Please attach a current photo with your response.

Brandon

We feel your pain, ladies.

Just when you start to feel comfortable diving headfirst into a virtual relationship, a new league of impotent male incompetents manage to dump their intellectual stool samples into the online dating pool. But fear not, ladies, as their Downey-soft erections exhibit no more rigidity than the freshly shampooed mane of a gold-ribbon showpony. Rather, we invite you to take solace at WWHM Headquarters, where we're proud to offer fresh guava juice and Nilla wafers to your right, and a state-of-the-art vagina resuscitation device to your left. We've also acquired a considerable stack of Febreze coupons and a pair of tweezers, so join WWHM as we parse through a few stool samples and identify the nuts.

Nuts like Brandon, for example, who recently released his hands and a flurry of middle-aged moths from his BattleBots briefs to scribe a personal ad based upon the intricate plotline of Meerkat ManWhore IV: Strike of the One-Eyed Snake. Deftly sidestepping trivial matters such as personal interests and accomplishments, Brandon instead garnishes his penis with heavily fortified numbers and serves up a wholly unsatisfying dish of male ineptitude and ignorance regarding the female libido. Brandon, if you'd like to re-create how women feel about your personal ad, here's a little experiment you can try at home: Dump a bucket of ice water on a cat.

Brandon nevertheless ignites the weak flicker of his philosophical heat lamp in a failed effort to melt the rigid clitoricicles of his potential female conquests. As women flee like gazelle from a low-flying helicopter, Brandon chastises the fairer sex for their lack of enthusiasm in bed, suggests women doll themselves up like porn stars, and concludes by unequivocally demanding a blowjob in order to qualify for a date. I'm not necessarily saying Brandon's lecture cools a woman's sex drive, but after my girlfriend read his personal ad, a polar bear stuck his head out of her vagina and ordered a mug of hot chocolate.

Unfortunately, Brandon provides us with just the latest example of an entitled, infantile dolt who sincerely believes a woman should behave just like her porn star counterparts. Sure, Brandon, after a hard day at work, a woman enjoys nothing more than lounging around spread eagle in her high-heel thigh-high latex boots, pouring a gallon of milk over her breasts, then shaving her pubic hair into the shape of a corn chip. Perhaps frustrated after the pizza guy fails to show, she'll furiously masturbate with an item of fresh produce, pour a can of clam chowder on her face, and call it a night.

Brandon ultimately fails in that he can't see the forest for the trees. Or, more specifically, he won't see a forest because of his sapling. You see, Brandon never quite addresses the obvious commonality between all the women he so condescendingly refers to as "boring in bed": Namely, the fact that they were all sleeping with Brandon. Women intrinsically recognize this, yet Brandon can't. And if that alone isn't cause enough to mummify his genitals, the clitoris actually contains a sophisticated sonar device which emits a series of inaudible chirps to warn other women about the presence of sub-par male sexual partners, and in Brandon's case, the overwhelming cacophony of high-pitched tones has even hard-of-hearing dogs burrowing holes to Bhutan.

In the Christmas spirit of providing guidance to the more ill-informed amongst us, WWHM would like to offer Brandon a few departing bedroom tips gathered from a roundtable of qualified men who fully understand that a "G Spot" isn't the brand name of a high-impact carpet stain remover. To wit:

Brandon, your penis is not a club, and the cervix is not a baby seal.

If you find your sex partner leafing through an aluminum siding brochure while you're going down on her, chances are your cunnilingus skills resemble a teenage giraffe gnawing parking decals off a car bumper.

Post-coitus, most women won't hurriedly brush off their inner thighs as if dismounting an unwashed mule. If they do, you fucking sucked.

If you can't manage to satisfy her in Round 1, make sure you properly finish the job in Round 2. It helps if, when grabbing your penis for Round 2, she doesn't feel like she's pulling taffy at a county fair refreshments booth.

In conclusion, Brandon, WWHM offers you the same advice we disburse to the majority of men we feature on our blog: Owning a penis no more makes you a quality fuck than owning a wrench makes you a quality auto mechanic. More often than not, if you find a woman unresponsive during sex, it's either because she's not interested in fucking what's between your ears, or because you're fucking her with all the muted stylings of a newborn puppy dry humping your grandmother's leg.

Ninety percent of sexually active single women would love an opportunity to make even the most seasoned porn star look like a listless bag of beets, yet only five percent of men can provide her the means and the brains to make her happily gnaw the bedpost into an effigy of the exact penis with which she is currently being fucked.

You know why, Brandon? Look in the mirror, dumbshit.

(As you guys know, I've been toiling away for over a year now without any advertising income from my websites. I've teamed up with Babeland, a very classy, reputable, and female-owned and operated sex boutique with stores in Seattle and New York City, so please feel free to support WWHM and PLFM by expressing your kink through the links on my websites. Believe me, there isn't a classier operation in the business. Thanks guys!)

WWHM/ PLFM Infrequent Updates Now 80% Less Annoying With Twitter!

2009-12-10T07:03:00.000-08:00

For those of you who tire of my horrifically irregular posting regimen, now you can follow both WWHM and PLFM on Twitter! Yes, I finally pulled my own head out of my ass and got with the program.

... or you can join the WWHM Facebook Fan Page here.

The Impregnator

2009-08-27T01:42:00.000-07:00

Looking to spread my seed

There are so many qualities about me, one is my looks, my abs, intelligency, humor, social grace, and personality that are A+++ in any womans book. So why not spread my seed and impregnant as many charming and sweet woman as possible. I will guarantee you, you will have the time of your life being impregnanted by me.

First, I don't loose an erection. I can last for hours, non stop. I can stroke you clitoris and hammer you g spot at the same time. I am also a guaranteed 9" long measured on a bad day. I also am a master at the art of tantra, so that sex is a metaphysic mystical experience of pure pleasure. 1st rule: no condoms 2nd rule: no pills 3rd rule: 8 hours of free non-stop sex (put that into your agenda). 4th rule (most important): have a vagina.

Eric

WWHM assumes men like Eric continue to subscribe to the mythical and baseless stereotype of the sexless single woman sitting alone in her apartment, intravenously injecting endless quarts of frownberry ice cream amidst an undulating sea of gassy housecats. "Why can't I find a potential father possessing both intelligency and impregnantism" she might scream, simultaneously hurling her new unabridged dictionary into the litter box. It's a common misconception Eric, and WWHM hereby warns you that "spreading your seed" will never be this easy. In your case, imagine yourself spreading frozen butter on room-temperature toast.

Regardless, Eric's here and he's ready to put the "abs" back into absentee father. He's got so much intelligency to impregnant you, almost any woman would rate him an A+++ in their book, unless of course that woman happens to be a 2nd grade teacher with a red pen, a partially literate woman with a modicum of discerning taste, or a breathing mammal. For those remaining ladies who choose to qualify men only by their ability to walk and chew gum at the same time, please know Eric regularly walks to the STD clinic while chewing his Valtrex prescription.

But, of course, what originally starts out as an offer to impregnate women rapidly devolves into what we've all come to expect here on WWHM: It's just another ruse designed to justify the posting of an online resume for his penis.

Yes, once again we get a gander at a wholly misinformed individual trying to upsell his dehydrated turkey leg as a healthy slab of kobe beef. What with all the pride men like Eric exhibit in championing their own genitals, one would think these guys had spent the past five years in a hardscrabble tool shed behind their homes, carefully constructing their penis with a mismatched assortment of clothespins, elk antlers, and surgical tubing. "Check this out!" he might say, as if pointing out a houseboat or high school marching band, "is this a nice penis or what?" It's simply the adult equivalent of a 2 year-old boy proudly pointing his mother towards a lukewarm mound of excrement currently earning a rich suntan on the living room carpet. "Poop!" he says excitedly to his mother, hoping she might share in his unbridled enthusiasm for the latest pièce de résistance to emancipate from his underpants.

We may think our penis outshines a sunrise, but to a woman a penis looks more like something they might use to plug a hole in a canoe or scrape off their shoe with a tree branch. Ask any random woman if she'd rather hear about your dick or get two free tickets to a tractor pull, and I guarantee you within five seconds she'd be walking off with her tickets and a wad of Skoal in her mouth the size of a small eagle.

Eric's ad closes with the old "I'm into tantric sex" routine, a tired and dazzlingly inept claim now present in no less than 20% of the personal ads we receive here at WWHM. While most men promise you their magical tantric sex techniques will make you squirt live aardvarks or straighten your pubic hair, Eric simply states that sex with him "is a metaphysic mystical experience of pure pleasure." And by "metaphysic mystical experience," I think he means "maybe a Wal-Mart candle and a few goatherding hymns off my iPod."

It's amazing how many guys now claim to employ these amazing tantric sexual techniques that last for several hours, yet women still complain men act like they just popped a nickel into a parking meter by the bed and don't want to get a ticket. Even if true, eight straight hours of sex might sound great to some people, but not so much to the individual walking around the office like she just dismounted a morbidly obese horse after a trek across Mongolia.

Good luck in your quest Eric, and if any of you ladies just happen to be in the market for a large-cocked, vain baby with a head the size of a ski lodge, I think your prayers have just been answered.

If you're seeking a modest baby with spelling skills, well, not so much.

WWHM Presents: Control!

2009-08-11T03:10:00.000-07:00

Enough is Enough Ladies

Ok, after years and years of trying to be nice and courteous to the female race. I've finally had enough and in search of a long term relationship. Here's what I want.

1.) You have to have the following, Car, Job, and of at least graduated high school. If your a dropout, then please do us a favor, kill yourself.

2.) Smoking Hot - Yes I said it, i'm not the best looking guy, but i'm sick and tired of going after less than what I deserve.

3.) Shitty personality - If you look down on others, then piss off and move on. Find a man who does not give a shit about you and uses you for what your worth, that sweet little honey pot between your legs.

4.) Indecisiveness - Any shred of "I don't know what I want" after you state that someone is everything you ever wanted, will result in a team of women known as my psychotic sisters will hunt you down and leave you wherever they find you

5.) Three Input Girls - if you are then my prayers are answered because I need something to slide something fat, long and ready to go inside of where I wanna put it.

6.) No emotional friends - I've put people in jail and in the ground for this one. You have been warned.

7.) Dedication- you will be with me or report to me on your whereabouts when I ask, and sleep in my bed at all times. You don't need to go on vacations by yourself nor do you feel the need for girl nights outs .

8.) Availability- You should go to work no more than half an hour before you shift starts and you must return home in a timely manner after your shift ends. If you would like to go out with your work "friends" you will go out with me and your "work" friends

9.) Self-Control - I really dislike a woman who tries to show her ass offin public, especially one who goes to night clubs and grinds her ass on every dick in the place. This pisses me off greatly.

10.) Lead on's - If you lead me on, instead of attempting to make a commitment toward a relationship will only lead yourself into getting the biggest dosage of karma you ever received.
Finally...

11.) Ex'es - If you still have a running contact with a ex-boyfriend, ex-husband, ex-lover or ex-fling. Then I will not tolerate that. I have friends in U.S., U.K., CIA, DEA, FBI, NSA, SIS, GSG-9 (I get around).

And if I have the slightest doubt, you know that feeling that your being followed? You are.

Me, workaholic, running a successful business, and highly family oriented that doesn't give a shit, or takes any shit. Must have a preference for big men who are more muscular than fat.

I look forward to talking with all of you women out there and hopefully one of you can be my potential soulmate and make beautiful babies.

Hugh

I acquired my first girlfriend sometime during the tenth grade, an attractive and kittenish girl named Tracy with a puzzling affinity for both Jesus Christ and mini-skirts. Fond of histrionics and obsessed with her cat, she wasn't exactly the type of girl I was usually interested in. But I was 16 at the time, she was pretty, and my testicles churned out far more sperm than they could handle, much like those comical pastry factories in sitcoms where a conveyor belt of pies ultimately overwhelms its workers, leaving the floor covered in a slick, frothy cream. Only in my case, it was either a gym sock or my bedsheets, which often achieved a level of unpleasant crustiness one might expect from a cut-rate pizza.

Aloof and shy in the beginning, it took me several weeks to figure out she actually had a romantic interest in me. She would call frequently, slinging loaded questions which I initially dismissed as casual conversation. "If I took you out to dinner, what kind of tasty surprise do you think I'd get for dessert?" she'd coo in a sultry voice dripping with sexual innuendo. "Um, probably carrot cake," I'd reply naively, an inexperienced yet fluid sexual matador deftly sidestepping her raging bull of a vagina. You could practically hear her eyes rolling over the telephone.

I hadn't quite taken to her until she approached me at a keg party one evening, her eyes glassy and her breath reeking of boxed wine. "I want to show you something that will blow your mind." Familiar with her tendency to exaggerate, I reluctantly followed her to the bathroom, fully expecting her to "blow my mind" with a Victorian pillow catalog or yet another photo montage of her unfortunate cat dressed up as a coal miner or carefree surfer.

Rather, she shoved me against the sink and began furiously unbuckling my belt. Apparently carrot cake was off the menu, but I didn't protest.

Suddenly, I had a new girlfriend.

Prior to Tracy, I had clung to girls like a nursing koala, my hands tightly clutching at their arms in a desperate attempt to prevent them from straying towards boys with a spine or a car worth more than a postage stamp. But with Tracy, our roles reversed. She hovered over me like a mid-day shadow, a prim and proper fish awkwardly trying to swim in the pond scum of my social circle. With Tracy I never experienced the desperate neediness I had felt with so many other girls. In turn, I realized the dearth of my own hollow desperation exponentially increased her interest in pursuing me.

Tracy was initially attracted to my sense of humor and my wholly fictitious role as a rebellious outcast, but once we started dating she insisted on an increasing level of interactivity with her popular friends, a detestable collection of monied athletic boys with names like Bradford and Parsnips. Sitting in their fancy homes drinking their fancy beers, I longed to sit in a public park with my own friends, siphoning a flat keg of swill into our stomach lining as we exchanged blatant lies about the unconquered vaginas that had repeatedly eluded us like frightened squirrels.

She began to aggressively shoosh my efforts at the off-color humor she once so professed to love, preferring politically correct conversations at dinner with her parents, where we might "enjoy" upscale yet unfulfilling dishes such as twice-baked chicken ears or bristled duck knees in a telephone sauce. "That's not proper," she would say as I initiated another expletive-laden line of questionable humor targeting someone else's unfortunate injury or untimely death. A month prior, she would have found it an absolute scream.

My lack of financial resources annoyed her to no end, not comprehending I was one of those kids forced to toil at a job rather than simply exposing my bare palm to a love-starved parent. She wanted me to take her to the type of restaurants that served meals with multiple forks, despite the fact that I had just lightly sprinkled 17 copper coins into the grimy hand of a gas station attendant in order to pacify my gas tank. If I was to use a second fork for anything, I'd use it to stab holes of financial reality into her delusional dining fantasies. To me, "upscale" meant tartar sauce on my french fries.

If things didn't go her way in our developing card-game of a relationship, she always played the Queen of Tears, a masters move of female manipulation for which, at the time, I had absolutely no defense. The moisture welling up on her cheeks, I would jump off a cliff or rob a bank if I only knew it would make her stop. "Push that elderly woman in front of a bus," she might say as tears trickled down her face. "What route?" I'd reply. She knew my weakness and plucked it as she would the wings off a defenseless fly.

After a few months I began to entertain a previously unfathomable thought; maybe I should consider ending the relationship. It was a shocking revelation I could barely qualify in my own mind. Here I was a meek and shy teenager interminably desperate for the affection of girls, and now I was contemplating biting the hand that fed me. I was a starving Ethiopian, about to throw away my only morsel of food.

Her parents left town one weekend and I reluctantly agreed to shack up with her. We had engaged in a particularly vicious fight the previous evening over the misconduct of my peer group, and the next morning I awoke resenting our relationship. It wasn't her fault; I wasn't a rat she had cornered and beaten with a stick. Rather, I was a rat willingly residing in her cage and tired of performing tricks for cheese.

As I stared at the ceiling, Tracy rolled over in an effort to cuddle with me. Perhaps she was asleep or perhaps she had contorted herself in just the right manner, but nevertheless I heard a abrupt noise emanate from behind her as if someone had just drop-kicked a small goat. The sound was unmistakable; she had farted.

Previously I had lived in a delusional world where women didn't have this issue, and even if they did it sprung from their bodies in the form of festive, shimmering maypole ribbons that might smell like fresh pie. This was not the case as evidenced by the reaction of her cat, who immediately contracted his ears, stood up, and exited the room as if late for a pharmaceutical conference.

Tracy's eyes shot open and met mine, and all I could do was explode into laughter. I had never heard a girl fart before, and haven't heard it since. She was mortified. "It's not funny," she said, "I don't feel good." It was funny and she knew it. She started laughing for a moment, but then began to pretend like she was crying over her laughter in an attempt to toss a little guilt my way.

It was a brilliant show, her puppy sobs countered with her crocodile tears. After about ten minutes and some considerable effort, she was finally able to muster a tear, but I was nonplussed. No one cries because of a fart, and from that point forward I accepted her tears for what they were worth; a tired effort to further manipulate my behavior.

We broke up soon after, and the last I heard she started dating a boy much worse than I. He had a criminal record, a bad attitude and a drug habit. In effect, just three small steps away from Mahatma Gandhi, but nothing a nice bag of chicken ears couldn't cure.

My relationship with Tracy was my first foray into understanding the concept of control in a relationship, my first grand adventure in analyzing the subtle behaviors we use to elicit the desired behaviors out of our mates.

Sure, women may use a little sex or emotion to wrest control in a relationship now and then, but their efforts pale in comparison to the legions of personal ads WWHM receives every week from guys like Hugh, the author of today's featured ad.

Like many men, he takes the concept of control to whole new level.

Let's critique ...

I've never personally attempted to lord over my girlfriends with the grip of an iron fist. I always figured I could find easier subjects to control; the weather, tides, or perhaps the rotation of purely theoretical planets. If I truly want to control something, I'll rent a forklift.

But sometimes we find jack-offs like Hugh, an impotent circus monkey perched upon his tiny apple cart, demanding your attention by aggressively clasping his little monkey cymbals and hurling stale clumps of digital feces in the form of an online personal ad. He wants access to that "sweet honeypot" between your legs, which might help explain why women currently find themselves stuffing their vaginas with bees. You're an asshole, Hugh; if death threats were orgasms, I'd be passing out cigarettes.

Most men can acknowledge the inherent irony of trying to control a woman; the more you try to control her behavior, the more you encourage the exact behavior you're trying to control. It's like trying to control an advancing shark by threatening it with a sack full of plump, delicious kittens; you think you're gaining control of the situation, but in reality you're only making it worse. Hugh, however, is one of those guys who at least acknowledges up front his desire to rule over his sexual partner with an iron fist. Ironic, considering his main sexual partner will be the exact iron fist with which he plans to rule.

Hugh complains he spent the past few years perfecting the "nice and courteous" approach in an attempt to attract a woman. During his unsuccessful campaign for a girlfriend, I'm sure Hugh would assure us he was always on his best behavior; he only boiled their pets in bottled water, he used wholly biodegradable explosives to detonate their cars, and he even showed his softer side by folding their restraining orders into a variety of thoughtful, decorative origami swans.

Yet strangely, Hugh found himself running into the same excuses every time he asked for a second date. "I'm doing my hair," or "I'm having dinner with my parents" or "I'm tied to a brick at the bottom of a remote lake." Hugh might know a lot of guys in the CIA, but looking at his personal ad I'm pretty sure this online assassination of his penis was an inside job. Hopefully he has room to maneuver a one-inch coffin inside his toughypants.

Failing at the nice approach, our resident lardass wants to put his foot down, and it sounds like it's going to end up on your neck. Hugh demands, of all things, a woman who "doesn't look down on others", a woman who has no contact with any men or emotional friends, and most importantly, he wants a hot "three input girl" so he can slide something "fat and long" into any hole he wants. So apparently, Hugh plans to pull his head out of his own ass and shove it into yours.

Let's face the facts about controlling assclowns: No matter what you do, you will never appease them.

You may have been a virgin when you met, but as you soon as you start dating a controlling guy, he'll convince himself you're a common strumpet, fucking every co-worker, bartender, barge-operator and gay hairdresser you come into contact with. The minute he loses sight of you, he thinks your vagina swings open like a Price Is Right prize door, revealing a red carpet and a rotating spotlight to illuminate the clouds, enticing all available men inside with flashy fliers promising free toasters and a 20 oz. fountain drink.

You could install a Lo-Jack on your clit, a Viper alarm in your fallopian tubes, and allow him move into your uterus with nothing but a periscope, a breathing straw and a cellphone, and he'd still spend his entire day suckling your ovaries, sending email death threats to your vibrator, and hiring hitmen to pump bullets into your dildos.

And despite all this, he still wouldn't trust you.

And to think, this guy wants your hand in marriage.

Funny, I've never been to a wedding where the bride wears cement shoes and a wedding ring on her toe with a tag attached for her name, address and date of expiration.

Edit From WWHM:

This post originally contained a third anecdote which I initially thought somewhat related to my post. After getting relentlessly and completely blasted by people in my personal life (and I hear I'm currently getting blasted in the comments as well) for posting it, I realized I stray way too far from the purpose of WWHM sometimes.

If I want to keep a fucking dear diary, I need to visit the Barbie section of my local Target and buy myself a nice little ruffled number with a fucking duck on it.

I guess my original intention was just to show I'm not perfect and we all get what's due us. Unfortunately it wasn't funny and that's what you guys are here for, not my pathetic hypothesizing about shit. From now on, I'll leave the personal shit out of WWHM, and stick to the meat and potatoes of why you're here. Bad personal ads. Comedy. Or at least an attempt at comedy.

Originally I had owned up to cheating and getting cheated on, and invited readers to share their stories of catching their significant others cheating, so that's what you'll read in the comments aside from the apparent bashing of myself.

I'll leave it where I left off ....

In the comments today, we'd like you to follow suit and tell us exactly how you found out about a cheating partner. Feel free to include the nasty details.

Let 'er rip!

Zipperworm Escapes on NYC Subway

2009-07-06T02:12:00.000-07:00

Man, WWHM seriously loves our devoted readers.

Today, longtime WWHM reader LM shares with us a lovely photograph she took during a recent trip home on the New York City subway system.

Seems LM, like most people, was minding her own business playing a game on her cellphone.

When she looked up, however, she found this strapping young assclam staring at her intently with, of course, his dick hanging out of his pants.

Rather than freak out, LM did the right thing.

She snapped a photo and sent it in to WWHM, where we will gladly post it for all to see.

Needless to say, he panicked and ran off the subway at the very next stop.

But no worries, my friend, because we've captured your beautiful moment in time forever!

And boy would it suck if your boss found out! On that note, if you know this guy, where he works or where he lives, email us and we'll gladly post all of his information as a matter of public interest.

Or, in the case of his dick, public disinterest.

LM posted her experience on Craigslist and also sent it to our friends over at Gawker.com, so now her story, and his cock, are going national. If you'd like to see the uncensored photos, you can find his glorious kielbasa posted right here.

Thanks LM!

***Update: This is turning into a serial flasher case. Many NYC women reporting this guy has flashed them in the past. I smell blood.***

Mastur-Nation

2009-06-28T01:32:00.000-07:00

Cum Watch! - 40m

Hung single stud loves showing off to young ladies in my sexy speedos and women who fantasize about watching me jack off in public!

Im a straight guy that loves to show my stuff. I really want you to do nothing but sit next to me or catch me jacking off. Its that easy, I'm good looking with a nice package and huge cum shooter! Let's meet in XXXXXX Park for a show you'll never forget!

OR I can just come over and strip and jerk off for your viewing pleasure. It's better then watching porn or using your imagination. You can touch me when you are very turned on and overcome with your horniness. I love to perform for groups of women!

Does the thought of a well hung stud playing with himself make you curious? Do you want to catch me playing with myself in public? Are your fingers making their way to your panties thinking about my cock?

Let's talk now to satisfy your stud fantasies! Let's watch my beautiful cock explode!

Sean

As men, we often wonder what fantasies play out in a woman's mind while she masturbates. I always imagine a world of vivid colors, winged unicorns, and sparkling, complex characters, all set adrift in a sea of brand-name furniture and towels folded into attractive, presentable squares. I know it's nothing like what goes through my mind when I masturbate. I'm a guy; I can jerk off to a bus schedule.

Yet some guys wholly neglect to consider the actual substance of women's fantasies, instead projecting their own fantasies into the minds of women. Guys like Sean for example, whose personal ad might suggest women actually fantasize about encountering a pantsless man in penny loafers and a mid-century beekeeping helmet, masturbating furiously in a public park as partially chewed crackers spill from the open beaks of completely mortified ducks.

Throw in a car bomb, Sean, and you've got yourself a fantasy.

Sean ultimately fails to arouse women with his completely implausible theory however, as evidenced by my recently divorced sister reading Sean's personal ad and subsequently facing first-degree arson charges for attempting to burn down her own vagina. "I've given up on men," she wrote to me a few weeks later on Energizer letterhead, "If I need an orgasm, I can grease my own hamster."

Yet I admit in moments of kink and weakness, I've often asked my own girlfriend to watch me play with myself, which always sounds like a good idea until I see that horribly pained expression on her face, as if she's watching someone process a stool sample.

I can't blame her. I don't possess the erotic appeal of a muscled Portugese foot soldier carrying a tray of delightfully chilled cantaloupe cubes, nor do I speak that rather fluid dialect of Vaginese paired with a charming Clittorish accent that so many women find endearing. I'm a pretty plain guy and I've seen myself masturbate, and believe me, you wouldn't exactly compare my pathetic onanistic gyrations to the muted grace of a swan taking flight; rather, I look more like I'm shucking an ear of corn while giving birth to an abnormally large pheasant.

Indeed, men have utilized masturbation for centuries, primarily as a means to relieve ourselves of pent-up sexual desires. Our brains produce far more sperm than we can distribute in the intended fashion, no thanks to a brain that constantly comes up with such inspiring barstool zingers as "Excuse me ma'am, but would you like to see to see something swell?"

In fact, research shows prehistoric non-dominant males often masturbated upwards of ten times a day, suggesting dominant males often thought twice before diving into that evening's salad dressing. Unable to copulate with females because they couldn't build a fire or throw a rock for shit, submissive males frequently excused themselves from the cave, saying "I need to go slay a mastodon."

Slay the mastodon, indeed, my friends. We didn't call you guys Homo Erectus for nothing.

"God" didn't come around for another thousand years or so, so researchers still cannot speculate what prehistoric men moaned as they ejaculated.

Now, all of us have masturbated at one point or another, and in today's bonus section, WWHM unfortunately chose to step across a line from which we now cannot return.

Because today, my friends, if you wish to proceed beyond this point, you will suffer through the completely mortifying and embarrassing story about the first time we accidentally "stumbled" across masturbation as a youth. Likely, you will find the story an extreme case of "too much information." But we've all done it, and I'm just laying out a painful re-creation of the events that led up to my "discovery" so you can all have a good laugh at my expense.

Subjecting myself to the inhuman torture of relaying this story to you has tormented me for days. If you ever meet me in public and mention this story, please bring clean rags because I will be forced to shoot myself on the spot, and I don't want to soil your lovely new handbag.

Remember, proceed at your own risk.

I grew up on an isolated farm in a hippie community about 25 miles west of Seattle. We were hippies in every sense of the word; we made our own cheese, protested nuclear submarines, and used the word "burlap" as a verb.

Like most hippie families, my parents openly despised modern accoutrements and preferred to live off the land as nature intended. We grew our own food in a garden, and raised our own meat in a barn. My brothers and I meticulously raised, fed and befriended our barn animals, which my father then brutally slaughtered and served to us atop a steaming potato.

"Survival of the fittest!" he would joyfully pronounce, imploring us to simply wipe away our tears and dig in to the limbs, hearts, and minds of our closest friends.

"What does it taste like?" my father would ask.

"Lies," I replied.

Keeping in tune with nature I suppose, my parents regularly walked about the farmhouse naked. Nary a day passed when I wouldn't cross my father performing some menial farm task as if he had simply forgotten to put on clothes. Carrying a bushel of apples towards the farmhouse, his genitals flopped about wildly, as if performing a tribal dance dedicated to the joys of freedom and the value of choice.

I never felt awkward about my parents' nudity, but I certainly felt awkward about my own. Fully exposed to the elements before a shower, I would instinctively lock my knees and cup my genitals as if sequestering a small, argumentative bird. I don't know where the inclination came from, yet I remember always thinking that nudity was for adults only.

Around my eleventh birthday however, strange things started happening to my brain. Although I steadfastly held to my belief that girls were disgusting, vile creatures that spread disease and smelled bad, I began to look at them just a little bit differently for the first time.

Specifically, I developed an insane desire to lick the arms and legs of the pretty little girls in my class. I didn't know why and I never acted on the inclination, but girls' skin just looked so incredibly delicious, much like a steaming cookie. This, despite the fact if a girl actually touched me, I had to spend at least 15 minutes with my boyhood friends faux-spraying the point of contact with an imaginary can of high-grade disinfectant.

Though I didn't know it at the time, this was my first brush with my sexuality. I couldn't explain my desire to snack on the extremities of my female classmates, and I certainly wasn't mature enough to accurately connect the body buzz I felt with my newfound fascination with licking girls. It was just a strange, enjoyable buzz, and I didn't know how else to replicate it.

But then I discovered a new method.

I was sitting in my room one day tackling some of the important issues I faced as an eleven year-old boy, namely replicating tractor noises and drawing dinosaurs that killed people with lasers. My parents weren't around that particular day, so I was feeling a little mischievous. I remember sitting on my bed staring at the wall, trying to figure out what to do, when suddenly a little voice came into my head.

"Take your clothes off," it said.

It wasn't a suggestion, but more of a command. As usual, I didn't particularly want to take my clothes off, but I promptly did as I was told. I felt pretty dumb sitting in my room naked, but I felt that weird buzz coming on again, the same one I felt when I thought about chewing on a pair of skinny little thighs. I liked it.

"Go walk around the house naked," the voice said.

Six months earlier, you may as well have asked me to go kick my neighbors psychotic, man-eating horse in the shins, but for some reason this day I just said, "OK." I peeked out my door and saw the coast was clear, so I started walking around the house buck naked. My body was totally buzzing with some weird form of anticipation that I couldn't quite decipher, and it just barely overwhelmed my intense fear of my parents coming home and catching me nude, locking me up in an insane asylum, and feeding the keys to my moronic goats that regularly dined on coat hangers and tractor parts anyway.

After a couple minutes of walking around, something weird happened. I looked down at my penis and suddenly realized it was standing upright, reaching out as if trying to retrieve a snack item or summons a passing cat. Mortified, I ran back upstairs and threw my clothes back on, unsure of what had just transpired. Fortunately, putting my clothes back on seemed to tame my "problem." It had happened before in my sleep, sure, but never during the day.

The following week when my parents were away again, the voice came back, and this time I only pretended to not want to take my clothes off. I wanted to feel that buzz again, and nothing would stop me. "If I have to," I sighed to no one in particular, throwing my clothes off as if they were in flames.

But this time, my annoying "problem" surfaced almost immediately. "What the hell?" I thought. As if I didn't feel odd enough parading around the farmhouse naked, now I had to deal with this irretractable bird perch sticking directly out of my thorax. I wanted the buzz, but I didn't want this "problem" to interfere with my enjoyment of it.

I eventually learned I only could tame my "problem" by pre-occupying myself with boring activities while I was walking around naked. I'd stop by the couch and leaf through my father's scientific periodicals, or take my clothes off and then, in a stupid fake voice, say to myself "Well, I better go find that set of keys. I could put my clothes on, but, hey, it will only take a second to find the keys so why bother? I don't need clothes to look for keys!" Then I'd spend hours walking around the property naked looking for keys that I knew damn well were sitting in my pants pocket in my room.

Eventually I even walked around outside the farmhouse stark naked, which probably surprised people driving by on the freeway next to our house. "Oh my God," an old couple might exclaim, turning their heads as they passed, "I think I just saw a wingless fairy with an erection in that horse pasture."

As the months progressed however, the more difficult taming my "problem" became. No matter what I did or thought about, the minute I took my clothes off my annoying "problem" popped up like the door lock on a car. Out of solutions, I decided that my "problem" could do what it damn well pleased and it wouldn't stop me from walking around naked and getting my buzz.

I went into the attic and sat in a chair, wondering what to do about this newfound predicament. Staring angrily at my "problem", I suddenly realized where that peculiar and demanding "voice" had been coming from. The voice that always told me to take off my clothes, the voice that had tricked me into making applesauce in the nude. And it was standing at attention right in front of me. It was, in fact, the voice of my "problem."

Stunned at the realization, my penis and I then engaged in what forever will be known as "The Conversation." My penis and I had reached a showdown, two stubborn gunslingers meeting on opposite sides of the town square. I wanted my "body buzz", and he always had to swell up like a threatened pufferfish every time I took my pants off. There obviously wasn't enough room in this town for the two of us.

And as I sat in my chair, sweating in the August heat, so began the infamous Conversation:

Penis: Hey there, little fella.

Me: Oh, uh, um ... hey.

Penis: Sooooooooooo. (Insert innocent whistling.) Whatcha doin?

Me: Nuthin.

Penis: Hmmm, that's interesting. (Long pause.) Boyyyyyyy, do I need a hug.

Me: What?

Penis: A hug. You know. Touch me.

Me: I'm not touching you.

Penis: Why not? I'm cold.

Me: You're not cold. You just want me to touch you.

Penis: I'm freezing.

Me: Shut up.

Penis: Just for a second. You know you want to ... please.

Me: OK. But just for a second. And that's it.

... and on that note, I placed my head in the alligator's mouth. And a second is all it took.

Immediately I was overcome with a powerful shockwave that began pulsing throughout my body. It grew stronger and stronger, and in a matter of seconds I was convulsing in spasms of both ecstasy and confusion. I had no idea what was happening, but I knew it felt good.

And just as quickly as it all started, the shockwaves retreated. I gathered myself, completely aghast at what had just transpired. I still had all my limbs, and apparently I was still alive.

I checked my surroundings and everything seemed to be in order.

Until I looked down, where I made a terrifying discovery.

I had just milked myself.

I was horrifed. What was I, a cow? What was this ... stuff? What do I do now? Clean it up? Prepare some cereal?

I panicked. I didn't know what I had just done, but I was pretty sure I wasn't supposed to be doing it. I put my pants back on, and tried to find something, anything, to clean up the evidence I had just fire-hosed all over the attic. I couldn't find anything, so I did what all guilty eleven year-olds do with incriminating crime evidence.

I wiped it up with my hand and ....

I put it in my pocket.

I slowly crept out of the attic, and luckily no one was home. I went into my room, changed out of my "smoking gun" pants, and gathered a bunch of clean clothes to mix in with Exhibit A of the prosecutor's evidence. I lugged them down to the washing machine, and poured just about an entire box of detergent in the machine and started it.

My mother came home about an hour later, and I was sitting on the couch, pretending to be just another normal eleven year-old boy that hadn't just sprayed down the entire attic with a gallon of penis milk.

"Who's doing laundry?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm just washing some clothes," I replied, pretending to read a magazine that may as well have been upside down or written in ancient Sanskrit.

She looked at me suspiciously. "I just washed your clothes."

"Well," I answered, "uh , yeah, they weren't clean so I just washed them again."

My mother knew something was up, but luckily she didn't push the issue any further. She just shot me that disapproving look a mother spends years perfecting: The "I know you did something, and you're fucking kidding yourself if you don't think I'm going to find out" look.

Luckily, she never did figure it out.

Until I was 14, of course.

When she caught me in the act.

But that's another story, and one you won't read about here on WWHM.

Now that I've thoroughly embarrassed myself, I'm going to retreat to my closet, curl up in the fetal position, and suck on graham crackers for the next three days.

Now, I know you people won't likely want to share your stories after experiencing the humiliation I just went through, and I don't blame you. But if you want, you can let everyone know how old you were when you first discovered "the path to self-enlightenment."

Meanwhile, I'm going to go permanently alter my face with a chainsaw.

More WWHM Coming Up Soon!

2009-06-25T05:25:00.000-07:00

WWHM Headquarters has been absolutely besieged with emails begging me to post Mark and his website "Finding My Goddess."

I can't bear to read more than 10 words, but if you have 16 hours to kill, suit yourself. You never know, you could even become a billionaire.

Finding My Goddess

I apologize in advance, but I just couldn't pass this next one up.

Are you a bad person? Change your ways, or you might have to spend your next life as an ottoman in this house. Trust me, watch at least two minutes. If you can stand it.

Someone please test that ottoman for herpes.

Lastly, for the two or three of you that might be interested, Janak from sex-oriented blog casualencounters.com recently interviewed WWHM, and you can find the results here. We'll see you soon! -The Weasel

WWHM Presents: Sex Addict!

2009-05-28T12:52:00.001-07:00

SEX ADDICT 57M

very horny 57m sex addict looking for women who want all their holes filled 2 or 3 times a week// I am Married to a friggid wife , I dont have sex with her so I am here to offer sex to any willing young women.

Younger in 19-30 range or up to 35.

I would like meet at the Super 8 motel in XXXXXXX. you cannot sleepover, but I will buy you dinner before or after at the sizzler steakhouse.. Would prefer a married young woman and sex addict . Must enjoy sucking cock / swalowing

Clean, disease free, twats only// also will get you pregnant if desired//

Do not dare ask me for money I am not looking for protsitutes.I will buy youre dinner up to $15 dollars at sizzler

if interested please call

Mike (xxx) xxx xxxx

While Mike's personal ad initially appears to lack any sort of romantic enticements, please understand that Mike promises he will perform an erotic post-coitus interpretive dance titled "Thanks for Letting Me Slap That Beaver" in a revolting puddle of his own flop sweat.

Now, as most WWHM readers know, I hardly qualify myself as an expert on women. WWHM critics oft contend I use WWHM to "get laid" or "make myself appear more attractive to women," a completely laughable hypothesis considering my own sexual expertise with women falls somewhere between that of a 4 year-old Amish boy and a gay seagull.

When it comes down to it, I'm essentially as clueless as the next guy when it comes to satisfying a woman's needs in bed; women demand I treat their vagina like a clown car, and I end up treating it like a gas bill. While a paraplegic drooling chinchilla could manipulate the average penis into orgasm, the pussy presents a whole new host of problems for guys. We have to focus on so many parts- inner, outer, upper, lower, folds, lips, spots, buttons, hoods- it's like assembling a fucking Mr. Potatohead in your pants. Up until last week, I actually thought the "G Spot" was an inner city discotheque.

So where's my sexual confidence? Let me put it this way: I'm the only guy in the world who actually caught a woman faking a fake orgasm, and I'm hung like a hamster clit. Job well done dominant small penis gene!

Perhaps I should aspire for the confidence of Mike, our 57 year-old married "sex addict" featured today, who's looking to wheel out a few dozen of his wheezing sperm into the youthful expanse of a 20 year-old uterus, the sexual equivalent of unloading an Atlantic City casino bus directly into an iPod store. Are young women really this turned on by the thought of getting fucked by an older man? It depends.

Now, I don't have any problem with older men chasing after younger women, but prepare for the inevitable generational problems. You tell him to bring a vibrator, but he brings a gear-driven mule-drawn dildo called the "Ye Olde Britches Tickler." He loses his teeth during oral sex, causing your vagina to resemble a rhododendron with porcelain veneers. Fingers stuck to your clitoris? Thanks PolyGrip! And try not to look shocked when old men refer to their ejaculate as "monkey sparkles."

Yet I have a few major problems with Mike's ad, so let me "fill in the holes" as Mike so eloquently states. First, Mike chose to deliberately detonate a "twat" bomb in his personal ad. The word "twat" originates from the Old Norse term "pveit" which literally means "to form a clearing in the forest," ironic considering the immediate re-forestation caused by the use of the word "twat." WWHM would like to kindly suggest all men refrain from detonating a "twat" bomb in their personal ads, as not only do women find it particularly offensive, but it also makes kittens cry.

Yet Mike's unfortunate twatsplosion pales in comparison to his misappropriation of the term "sexual addiction." Philandering men often like to utilize the "sexual addiction" excuse as a form of insanity defense against their recurring extra-marital affairs, but like any insanity defense, the "insanity" usually applies more to the defense than the actual defendant.

To imply that some sort of "sexual addiction" causes your infidelity is to imply you have no control over your penis, but rather you are simply a victim of it's headstrong whims. It suggests the penis has the ability to make independent decisions, as if a penis might wake up some morning and suddenly apply for archery lessons, read Algonqian poetry, or perhaps sample a variety of odiferous cheeses.

The truth is we, as men, spend our entire lives actively seeking penile recreational opportunities, yet when caught cheating by our significant others, we might blame sexual addiction and respond "Oh .... , it just happened." Believe me, I'm in my 30's, and for me pussy has never just "happened." I have to search it out like Ponce de Leon.

Besides, calling yourself a sex addict because you want sex 2-3 times a week is like calling yourself a food addict because you had a light chicken salad for lunch. You're not a sex addict if you want sex 2-3 times a week; you're a sex addict if you're fucking a light chicken salad.

And believe me, I should know.

I used to live with a recovering sex addict.

A real one.

"You need to move into a home that specializes in the treatment of addictions," Lisa screamed.

My drug counselor was huddled over me, scolding me for rudely deflecting her suggestion that I move into a post-treatment halfway house. "A halfway house is not what you think it is," she said.

I was pretty sure I knew what it was. A collection of 50 year-old recovering street alcoholics perhaps, yelling at the help for the unfair distribution of pudding, oblivious to the fact their hospital gowns had drawn open and exposed their piping hot urine bags.

My friend Sarah agreed to pick me up from rehab only on the condition I take Lisa's advice and check into a rehabilitative center. I was assigned a facility and a roommate, and we began the 200 mile journey to my new home.

Of course it wasn't anything like I had expected. The rehabilitative facility was a normal house on a normal street, stocked with eight completely normal people who only distinguished themselves from the rest of the general public in that at some point or another during their lives, all of them had ambled through the fur of their family pets looking for crack rocks.

We were all better now in theory, though I still saw the telltale signs of addiction recovery in all my new roommates. The recovering heroin addicts spoke in slow, meandering drawls, while the recovering meth addicts frequently forgot what they were doing or itched impatiently at their shoulders. Then you had recovering cokeheads such as myself, whose normal "state of rest" involved cartwheeling about the house like agitated chickens.

The Housemaster greeted me and went over the house rules- I had to get a new job right away, do my chores, pay my rent, follow my curfew, and take drug tests at a moment's notice. "Oh," he added as an afterthought, "and the new house rule is no porn. For that you can thank your new roommate."

I had no idea what that meant.

"Hi, I'm David!"

David extended his perfectly manicured hand towards Sarah and I. I couldn't quite manage a response; I was still awestruck. Before me stood quite possibly the best-looking human being I'd ever laid my eyes on. While I stood in shocked silence, I heard Sarah's clitoris pop up like burnt toast.

David was impossibly tan, and chiseled like a totem pole. He had tousled brown hair with natural highlights, blue eyes, and teeth that put piano keys to shame. He was in med school and played rugby, soccer, and baseball. He was impossibly rich, and very funny. In other words, he was currently on the "Bucket List" of every vagina in the country. I toweled up Sarah's drool and began unpacking my things.

For the unaware, one of the first things recovering addicts always ask each other is "What's your poison?" as in, what was your drug of choice? David seemed flawless, and I couldn't imagine him whoring himself out for a gram of heroin or a 100 mg Oxycodone. "So what are you in for?" I asked, unable to determine his weakness.

"I'm a sex addict," he answered calmly, in the same manner someone might reply had you asked what type of cereal he was eating or which airline he preferred.

We've all had experiences where someone says something so unexpected in the course of conversation that we simply can't formulate a response, and David's answer delivered one of these moments. I'd never considered sex as a legitimate addiction- we all want to fuck and fuck often- it's a trait common amongst all living creatures. We're all sex addicts, aren't we?

David explained he used to have a "normal" sex life. But as personal problems both past and present began to mount, he found himself demanding sex more frequently from his fiance. "It was my only means of escape," he explained. Normal sex didn't cut it anymore, so his sexual demands on his fiance increased. "Ten to a dozen times a day I was fucking her," he admits, and she eventually left him. He needed help, she said, and he knew it. But that didn't stop him.

David turned to a never ending parade of other women that came to him at the drop of a hat. But he exhausted them all and still couldn't get enough, so he turned to prostitutes and computer porn to satisfy his addiction. He admitted spending upwards of 15 hours a day on porn websites, and even began to schedule lunch breaks to ensure that he would eat. And he missed them.

One day David made the mistake of leaving his curtains open on purpose. "I needed another charge sexually- I wanted someone to catch me." And he was caught just as he intended. By the police. Charged with indecent exposure, David finally made the decision to admit himself into a treatment center for sexual addiction.

His story didn't particularly gross me out. Had David been an obese, balding man in farmer's trousers and mismatched socks, well, I might have felt differently. But here was possibly the best-looking man you could imagine, a man who has everything, who lost everything to his obsession with sex.

There are two types of recovering addicts. Addicts like David subscribe to the "program," meaning they attend meetings, read books relevant to their problems, and talk openly with fellow addicts about the issues that led to their addictions.

Then there are recovering addicts such as myself, who only use their Alcoholics Anonymous book as a convenient paperweight or helpful stepstool when changing lightbulbs.

As a result, I became more enmeshed in David's recovery than I did my own. After we became familiar with each other, rarely a morning passed where David wouldn't cheerfully approach my bed as I awakened, proclaiming in a cheery and uplifting voice "Hey, Mike. I'm not going to masturbate today!"

"Good for you!" I'd answer, using a voice usually reserved for commending a first grader on his crayon depiction of a giraffe. Then I'd awkwardly head to the shower and feel extraordinarily guilty while I masturbated. In fact, for the first time in my life, I began to feel guilty about my own sexual practices. Here I was only a bathroom door away from an individual desperately trying to escape from the only pleasure I had available. I felt like the Pope masturbating in the Vatican.

My morbid curiosity about David's previous freewheeling pornstar lifestyle often got the best of me, and I frequently found myself drawing a line between protecting his interests and feeding my own. Who doesn't want to hear about the time a bachelorette party of 5 drunk girls pulled him onto their party bus and used him as guinea pig for sharing blowjob techniques? "Wow," I thought to myself, "that must have been horrible." Followed of course by a feverish round of masturbation as soon as he left.

But David often found himself in a curious yet serious predicament; here he was trying to combat a destructive sexual addiction, whilst women constantly flung themselves at him like moths to flame. Women approached him everywhere he went, from stores to restaurants to street corners, dropping phone numbers, striking up conversations and flat out asking him for dates that very evening. It'd be like me moving into in Pablo Escobar's pool house.

Just before Christmas, I went to a local mall with David in an attempt to accomplish some last minute Christmas shopping. At one point we found ourselves at a standstill while lost in the center of the mall, and a woman approached David and started chatting him up, while I took on my usual role around David of "space filler." While I patiently pretended to admire a myriad of plastic mall plants, I noticed a second woman waiting in the wings for the first woman to go away so she could talk to David.

Once the second woman made her approach, another woman began loitering in the background, her eyes also fixated on David. I wondered, had I been attacked by a pack of ravenous bears, would anyone have even noticed? I envisioned a never-ending line of women waiting for David, their holiday shoes splashing about in pools of my blood, my entrails snared in their heels as they patiently waited their turn.

"Shhhh," they'd admonish me, my curdling screams interrupting small talk with David about the weather and holiday plans, whilst large blood-soaked bears made off towards mall exits with an assortment of my meaty limbs in tow.

To my amazement, in the six months I lived with David, David stood firm in his conviction to abstain from any form of sex. He regularly blew off the advances of a cavalcade of models, exotic dancers and girls fresh from the countryside. He stayed off the computer, and nary took a glance at the poorly hidden porn stashes laying about the house. I personally wondered how the hell he did it without snapping off a batch now and then, until he thanked Jesus during a house meeting for allowing him to experience several much-needed "nocturnal emissions."

Thanking God for a cumshot? Now there's a new one.

Hey God? I owe you a million thanks.

David overcame his sexual addiction, and now seven years later has a girlfriend whom he plans to marry within the year. Though much to her chagrin I'm sure, David has elected to refrain from sex with her until their wedding night.

"How do you possibly fucking do it?" I asked.

"Oh, she blows me all the time. It's fucking awesome."

Asshole.

So while I once mocked the concept of sex addiction, now I only mock those whom use it as an excuse.

Like Mike, our personal ad poster for today.

You're not a "sex addict" Mike, you're a fucking horny old fucking jackass trying to cheat on your wife by posting a impossibly-horrendous-at-every-turn personal ad in a failed attempt to attract a young woman drunk enough to lie underneath you for two minutes so you can slap away at her belly while wheezing like a physically taxed walrus.

And you thank her with a $15 dinner at Sizzler? That's lovely. Maybe you could sweeten the pot by offering a cassette mixtape of your favorite Lynard Skynard tunes.

In a completely unsurprising turn of events, Mike blames his philandering on a "frigid" wife, and in the comments today, we'd like to see how "frigid" women really are. More often than not, it's simply the dickless and uninspired fucking provided by flaccid dolts like Mike that drive women to seal up the fun hatch.

Ideally, how many times a day would you like a proper fucking?

I'll take 2.5 a day. I'm sure you can figure that out.

Post whatever you want, and I'll gladly take my beating for posting an overly long and sleep inducing entry.

(WWHM would like to thank my friend "David" for allowing me to post his story. Congratulations David.)

Hurricane Steve Presents: The Virgin Chronicles

2009-05-06T01:28:00.001-07:00

looking to fuck me -19M

youcan call me Steve my freinds call me huricane or huricane Steve. 19 years old I want someone to help me loose my virginity this weekend. Mostly if I could stick it in your pussy for a minute, we dont actually have to have sex. You can get me hard by giving me a blowjob because i had blowjobs before two times/

not intrested in bad smelling pussy or big girls. Also must be shaved yourself down there or dont have much hair at all is ok. dont be in your period either. no unshaved. Mostly I tired of my friends making fun of me, so you could help me. I dont have no experiense with girls so I dont know if you want me to try but you wuold have to tell me what to do. respond by wendsday so we do this when I trun 20 (before20>

if your overwaite women or hairy womendont call, and please be smelling nice. Don not drink or smoke. no drugs.white or asain woman only.

Steve XXX-XXX-XXXX

Today WWHM would like to issue an urgent warning regarding Hurricane Steve, a 19 year-old male virgin whose sudden and unfortunate approach may encourage women to nail an assortment of plywood boards to their vaginas. Hurricanes typically disperse copious amounts of moisture, but this particularly impotent storm promises to leave your panties drier than the sun parched asslips of a dehydrated sand snake slithering through a field of Sham-Wows.

Hurricane Steve posted a personal ad in hopes of losing his virginity, utilizing a series of detailed vaginal specifications for the upcoming christening of his penis. Personally, I didn't know I had that option when I was a virgin. To me, pussy was like prison food; you take what's given to you, or you don't fucking eat.

Yet Steve somehow intends to acquire a vagina in the same manner one might order a new Ford Taurus or a late-night pizza. Checking off his list of preferred genital toppings, Steve apparently thinks a man on a moped will deliver an insulated oven bag stuffed with a piping hot vagina in 30 minutes or less. You're a virgin Steve, so don't pretend like you're some type of connoisseur of the fairer sex; you wouldn't know a pussy if it was wearing a clown nose, eating a corn dog, and pockmarking dents in the hood of your car on a pogo stick.

Statistics reveal that our kids now lose their virginity at an average age of less than 15 years. I lost my virginity at 16, a relatively late bloomer amongst my own peers in the late 1980's. Boys now generally lose their virginity at age 14, and girls trail boys just a bit at 15. So I wasn't surprised when I recently asked my friend's 13 year-old daughter what she fed her rabbit, and she responded "2 D batteries," followed quickly by "Oh, I ... mean.....lettuce."

Though I lost my virginity at age 16, my first sexual thoughts smokily emanated upwards from my briefs at age 12. I had developed a crush on a little girl up the street named Amy who always wore short little cotton dresses to class, and I'd sit across from her all day gawking hungrily at her tanned and tiny legs. While you'd think my first sexual fantasy would entail holding her hand or perhaps peeking at her breasts, inexplicably I was obsessed with an insane desire to lick her legs. Specifically her thighs, right above her kneecaps. I couldn't stop thinking about it. It drove me nuts.

I didn't know it was sexual at the time, and I certainly couldn't understand my strange and raging desire to run my tongue over the thigh of a girl who didn't even know I existed. I remember fearing I was turning into one of those "cannibals" I had read about in my pirate magazines, and certainly by the end of the week you would catch me somewhere in a forest snacking on the brains of unfortunate passersby after tricking them into a boiling cauldron of carrots I had prepared.

Eventually I connected my crazy thoughts about Amy with the sudden and raging disco party occurring daily in my pants. My balls dropped like a cruise ship anchor, and my constantly hard penis resembled the tiny arm of a meerkat reaching for a bowl of unripe pears. I discovered I could somewhat relieve the pressure by smashing it against a support pole on my school desk, or imagining my grandmother stirring a bowl of runny eggs. Four years later, I would unfortunately discover that I could also lose my erection while attempting to have sex.

Teenage male virgins face enormous social pressure to have sex. It was easy for most; the dashing young boys with cool shirts, the guys on the football team, and the rocker guys that hung out behind the school were all fucking girls and getting blowjobs during lunch. I, on the other hand, ate granola bars during lunch and still got hard at even the thought of a well-crafted pillow. Having just moved to the big city from a remote farm, I had no style, no athleticism, no body, and I constantly reeked of something that might leak out of a goat.

So I did what every male teen virgin did.

I lied.

I concocted a ridiculous story that I was having regular and mind-blowing sex with a girl from ..... wait for it .... Canada. The kids at my school actually developed new and specialized ocular muscles just to enable them to roll their eyes further back into their skulls when I excitedly told everyone about Rachel, my imaginary nymphomaniac girlfriend who lived in Vancouver. Could I have been any less original? Not surprisingly, Canada's primary exports to the U.S. at the time included fish and fish products, lumber, and fake female nymphomaniacs that loved blowing complete loser teenage American boys. Though I recently heard that due to the poor economy, fake Canadian nymphomaniacs are now only exporting completely fabricated handjobs.

I held tight to my bullshit story until I was 16 years old, when I was invited to a party at a friends house. Little did I know I would lose my virginity that night, and as expected, it was the most embarrassingly awful experience of my entire life.

Heather had her eye on me for quite some time. If anyone was going to sleep with me it was Heather, a girl that actually bragged about blowing members of the calculus club and sleeping with a mentally retarded neighbor. That made me feel like a real prize. If this girl had carved a notch in her bedpost for every guy she slept with, I could use her bedpost to pick almond skins out of my teeth.

Heather had recently developed a habit of meeting me at my car after school and grabbing my crotch as I sat in the driver's seat. "You wanna play?" she'd ask, fruitlessly searching my empty jeans for something hard to grip, and eventually massaging an assortment of loose mints and coins lining the interior of my pockets. Most boys my age would have pursued the offer, but I was such a nervous wreck about her touching my penis that it instantly recoiled like the electrical cord on a vacuum cleaner.

I drove to the party that night and proceeded to get fucking wasted out of my mind. Heather arrived drunk about two hours later and bee-lined for my crotch. "Let's go fuck in your car," she said. She grabbed my hand and led me out the door towards the parking lot.

This was it. It was finally going to happen.

Once in the back seat of my car, Heather clothes flew off so fast I barely had time to react. She ripped down my jeans and started giving me my first blowjob, and .... it happened. I got hard. My alcohol-fueled confidence won out over my insecurities, and I was ready to go.

She stopped to come up for air and told me to put on a condom. I scrambled around the dark car trying to find my wallet, and in my drunkenness I instantly went soft. She tried playing with me, but now I was thinking about why I wasn't hard, the absolute death knell of every male erection. "You need to go down on me again," I said. She gave me a look of disgust, which only agitated me further. She sighed and went down on me again, and I lay back thinking to myself "OK, now get hard." Of course, now, it just wasn't going to happen.

"What's wrong with you? Don't you like girls?" she asked.

I was so fucking embarrassed at this point that I had to prove to her there was nothing wrong with me. So I began trying to breathe life into my own deflated penis by yanking on it like I was trying to start an old lawnmower I had just pulled out of a river. She sat in the seat next to me watching, a horrified look on her face usually reserved for the aftermath of fatal car accidents or live televised intestinal surgeries.

I couldn't get myself hard. It was freezing cold, absolutely pouring rain, and a bored naked girl was staring at me expectantly with her arms crossed. Then ..... a spark. I was able to almost get fully hard, but only because mysteriously I was ready to cum. I slipped the condom over myself and told her to get on top of me. I got inside of her for only a couple seconds ... and then my penis slipped out without the condom.

And I came.

On her leg.

"Did you just pee on me?" she asked.

"No .. I ... uh ..."

I didn't have to finish the sentence.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" she asked incredulously. She pulled the condom out of her and slapped it on my arm, quickly gathered her clothes, and stormed out of my car, walking with the confidence of a sixteen year-old girl titillated with the anticipation of telling the entire high school that I had either a:) urinated on her, or b:) came faster than a mentally retarded boy.

I sat in my car, staring at the ceiling, soaking in a puddle of my own cold, misfired ejaculate.

I had begun the night a boy in his car, and ended the night a man. Though, in retrospect, I had never imagined becoming a man involved sitting alone in the back of my Volkswagen Rabbit holding my sad, flaccid penis in my hand whilst I hastily mopped up the rapidly crystallizing stalactites of cold, misfired spermitizoa from the roof of my car.

On my first night as a real man, I cried like a little fucking bitch.

So now you know what you have to look forward to, Hurricane Steve.

I'm sure the first time you drove a car, you certainly didn't require a 6 cylinder engine, a 5 speed manual transmission, leather seats and a sunroof. You had no fucking clue what you were doing, so why would it matter?

So wipe your worthless grocery list of vaginal qualifications from the face of the earth, and embrace any make and model of vagina allowing you to pass through her cock wash.

Now that I've thoroughy embarrassed myself with the story I promised, please feel free to leave your truthful and honest initial sexual tragedies in the comments.

Losing your virginity, your first sexual thoughts, whatever you can dig up to make WWHM feel just a bit less like a complete fucking ass.

And you wonder why I choose to remain anonymous.

And of course, read the first comment, which I will post, to make myself feel just a little bit better.

WWHM Gets Back to Business!

2009-04-29T00:42:00.000-07:00

let my fingers do all the walkin - 53

hey beauties,would like to have someone that likes to be touched in all the right places.if i can make you wet,i love to suck on clits and take in the juice.hygiene and nice sweet smells turn me on.i am an older gentleman,with nothin but time on my hands.if you are able to melt in my hand,u can melt in my mouth.a real muff diver hear.cleanliness is a must.nothin better than a sweet tastin puss.could it be yours.a picture is required if u r gonna sit on my face.if uarent,dont bother. IF YOU ARE BIGGER THAN ME,I WONT BE INTERESTED.SORRY.CONSIDERED A GOOD CATCH,IF YOU ARE THE ONE. CHarlesXXX-XXX-XXXX

WWHM has been a bit like a bad boyfriend as of late, haven't we?

Sure, we show up once in a while to give you that good thorough fucking you so richly deserve.

Then suddenly we disappear, often for days on end, checking in only occasionally from the llanos of Argentina, or perhaps from a prison cell in Oaxaca, where we weakly attempt to illustrate our recent arrest to you with some garbled excuse that may or may not involve six tons of government cheese, a Vietnamese man with an expired hovercraft license, and a teenage dairy mule wearing strapless high heels with a blue sun visor that says "My Other Car is a Peugeot."

But remarkably you come home today to find WWHM sitting on your couch, eating a fresh bag of Easter Peeps, and acting like absolutely nothing is wrong.

"What's for dinner?" WWHM asks, as we hand you a nourishing Peep.

You dispatch your briefcase to the floor, angrily locking your hands to your hips in a manner that suggests WWHM denied leaving a pee stain behind the houseplants. Lips pursed and nostrils quivering, you stomp towards the kitchen and pretend to arrange the dishes in the sink. Unkind words are exchanged, and feelings are hurt. Moist carrot cake is offered, and gently refused. WWHM meekly attempts to kiss your cheek, but your head swivels much like an owl who has spotted a squirrel in a wheelchair with a flat tire.

"I had dinner ready two fucking weeks ago," you scream, pointing out the date of our last post.

WWHM pontificates our wrongdoing, and offers you a shirtless, jeans-clad and unemployed 53 year-old "real muff diver" as a peace offering. We also throw in a side serving of horrified antelope, whose moistened lips gleam brilliantly with a variety of mysteriously placed off-brand prostate creams.

"He seeks 'sweet tastin puss to sit on his face'," WWHM pleads, "and loves to 'suck on the clits' and 'take in the juices'."

Your ears suddenly perk up like a startled deer.

"Will the poorly chosen words in his personal ad mutate the texture of my vaginal walls into a form of matted wheat similar to the dry side of a Frosted Mini-Wheat?" you query.

"The petrified interior of your uterus will resemble a traditional Norwegian wooden clog," I respond, now sensing you giving in to my whims.

Carrot cake is now reconsidered, as WWHM anxiously scrubs urine from the carpet behind the ferns with a toothbrush.

As further punishment, WWHM offers to brutally humiliate ourselves like never before in our next entry, which is currently in progress.

Truthfully guys, I finished up a major project last week and took some time off to travel around Oregon and Washington. I needed a break from the 70-hour work weeks. I appreciate all the readers that stuck with me, especially my long time readers who used to get 6-8 posts a week.

I have one more project coming due in the next few months, and plan to take this summer off to write for both PLFM and WWHM full-time, in addition to writing "Why Women Hate Men- The Book" which I've been sketching out for some time now.

Look for new posts this weekend on both blogs.

Once again, I fucking love you guys. Please know I read every one of your emails, but haven't had time to respond to all of them.

See you soon, and keep sending me all the great material.

-The Weasel

Touchdown

2009-04-16T03:02:00.000-07:00

Seeking lesbian couples, lesbian or bi women for caressing 45M

Looking to hold, teach, and participate in non-sexual mutual pleasurable caressing sessions to involve all body areas except the "bikini" zone or the breast area. The ideal clothing for you to wear is a 2 piece bikini but shorts and any top that you're comfortable with are ok too.

I will wear a men's "speedo" style swimsuit since that is the ideal attire for a male in this. We might have to pitch in about $5 dollars each for an hourly motel room. The reason I am asking for lesbians is not sexual, but rather, the women participating in this need to be comfortable having other women touch them, and not enough gals want to be touched by gals and gals don't generally trust anyone to touch them, so this is about the most ideal situation I could conceive of.

I would seek and allow guys but then I would have to find women who were willing to be touched non-sexually by guys who wouldn't be lecherous, lewd, crude, and rude about the whole thing.

Bill XXX-XXX-XXXX

My high school girlfriend had decided to take me out to a very nice restaurant for my 18th birthday.

At least it seemed like a nice restaurant back then, but looking back now in my mid-thirties, I think the restaurant qualified as "nice" simply because there wasn't a zany red exclamation point plastered on the tail end of each menu item, nor a host of free-spirited cartoon characters upselling cheese fries on the tablecloth.

She handed me a gift-wrapped box over the table after dinner, so I took it from her and proceeded to cause a big scene by ripping the paper open loudly and generally flailing about like a pregnant walrus. It was my 18th birthday, and I wanted all these disinterested casual diners to know it. My sudden lust for attention backfired only five seconds later, when I extracted a small gray underwear box featuring a nearly naked man wearing a fire-engine red thong.

The boxcover showcased a finely chiseled young Adonis, posing in a manner that suggested he had been emotionally reflecting upon the sudden appearance of a low flying seabird when the photographer suddenly snapped a picture without his permission. His pecs were fantastically ripped, his arms hung like tree trunks, and between his horse-like thighs hung the identical red thong I now owned, none too proudly, which appeared to house either an obese housecat or a prize-winning zucchini.

"It's for the bedroom," my girlfriend whispered naughtily, as though I had somehow originally misconstrued my new rose-colored cock sling as a convenient garment I might wear around the house whilst watching football with my buddies, having tea with my mother, or constructing a birdhouse.

Our 19 year-old male waiter dropped the check off, and made a point to acknowledge the absurd siren-colored banana sack I held in my hands underneath the table. "Have a nice evening," he said with a smirk, suggesting the question "Well aren't you just going to be the prettiest little princess at the ball this evening?"

Five seconds later, the backroom of the restaurant erupted in laughter, drowned only by a cacophony of shattering dishware.

My girlfriend took me home and immediately ordered me into the bathroom to asphyxiate my testicles in the steamy and unforgiving vault of flexible fabric. After dropping my barnacle sized penis into the wide-open confines of the "retention bag", I certainly wasn't very impressed with the results. Rather than a prize-winning zucchini, my genitals resembled a small caterpillar wearing clown shoes trying to hail a cab.

I tried a profile view in the mirror, but the results generally weren't any better. If you've ever seen a quail hatchling attempt to peck through a surgical glove, then you know exactly what I saw. Despite a few more futile attempts at gonad puffery, I resigned to the fact that my testicles hung with all the youthful exuberance of a windsock in a bank vault.

I emerged from the bathroom in my droopy man-panties ashamed, like a once-proud dog rudely forced to adorn a comical turtleneck sweater in a public dog park.

"Hmmmm," my girfriend said, her uterus constricting into a ball the size of a snow pea. "It looks sort of cute." Yet her facial expression conflicted with her words, and her true reaction couldn't have been any more obvious had her vagina suddenly repelled down her leg, grabbed an oatmeal cookie, and marched defiantly out the door to pursue a career as a craps dealer in Atlantic City.

Mind you this was my own girlfriend at the time, a straight woman with an extremely healthy sexual appetite, yet whom had become visibly repulsed by the sight of her own boyfriend with his penis ensconced in a makeshift sandwich bag and smashed flat against his thorax like somebody had just launched it from some sort of penis cannon directly into the wall of a middle-school gymnasium.

Yet the question still begs, if a straight woman who loved me deeply had such a horrific reaction to my ego-deflating serpent bag, why on earth would a 45 year-old man like Bill even harvest the thought that a group of unknown lesbians might want to willingly expose themselves to his Speedo-wrapped penis while he hungrily groped them in a rundown pay-by-the-hour motel room? That, by the way, they would have to fucking pay for.

It's not exactly a closely-held secret that even straight women despise the male thong. While women's lingerie teasingly hides the parts of a woman men so desperately want to see, the male thong simply hides what women don't want to have to look at. It's the genital version of sweeping hairballs under the carpet.

But ask a lesbian if she'd rather cuddle with a Speedo-wrapped penis or an angry caged bear, I'd give her all of 5 seconds to compose a will, drown herself in honey, and put on a suit made of bloody salmon heads and fresh gooseberries.

I've often imagined a lesbian's worst nightmare. Perhaps she finds herself locked in an ATM vestibule with an overweight, short, bald and hairy man with nothing on but a thong and a pair of dirty, striped knee-high socks, one pulled higher than the other. "Well," he might say whilst snickering nasally into a Penthouse magazine, "what do you suppose we do to pass the time in here, sweet tits?"

Or perhaps, just perhaps, her nightmare might involve spending an evening in a cheap hotel room with a creepy 45 year-old man wearing a Speedo, and gently running his crusty hands over her thighs as his haunting onion breath seeped into the hairs on the back of her neck like the haunting dark of night seeps into a forest.

Sorry Bill.

No vadgepass for you.

Dirty Talk

2009-03-31T17:12:00.000-07:00

***WARNING: NAUSEA INDUCING***

I will make you smile! - 52m

I am the only man that can truely make you cum and cum over and over again. sit on my face and fuck my mouth with your hole. Lay back as i will have you blowing your hole in no time. Next i continue toick you clean never giving you a rest as i banging on your clit like a punching bag (you might try to take a break and push away but I wont let you) and start inserting finger after finger into your soaked cuntwanting to suck on something else you suck me off to my first ejaculation exploding in your mouth. You tell me i taste good and i shoot on your face and chest as you rub my man juice into your skin like lotion. Later I turn my concentration back to you and plow your snatch til you cum again. Then ytou call me from work and tell me how Im the best and how wet i make your pussy and I will want to come lick your juicy snatch again.

Walter XXXXXX (XXX-XXX-XXXX )

As a young teen, I was lucky enough to serve my sexual internship with a woman far more sexually experienced than I was.

I'm not saying she was a slut, but to most guys her vagina was like Las Vegas. Going there sounded like a great idea at first, but you always felt bad about yourself when you left.

But I was 15 years old at the time, so I latched onto her vagina like a koala. She lay on her back patiently for a couple weeks, watching me blindly stab away at her uterus as if she had inadvertantly swallowed a small bird and I was trying to scare it out of her mouth. I hadn't a clue how to get her off however, though I tried valiantly with my vast arsenal of 15 year-old sex tricks, including my patented method of insecurely running my hand over her vagina as if attempting to locate a contact lens, followed by a round of oral sex that would have been more skillfully administered by a large-billed pond goose with cottonmouth.

Fortunately, while I was once again chipping away at her pelvis one day, she stopped me mid-coitus, pulled my face down close to hers, and whispered softly in my ear "Talk to me... ...I want you to talk to me."

Bewildered, I asked "About what?"

"Just talk to me," she said.

"Well, yesterday my mom made me change the oil in her car, and. .... ..."

"No," she said, "talk dirty to me. Tell me how much you love to fuck my hot pussy."

I wouldn't have been more shocked had she suddenly ground up my genitals and fed them to a caged bird.

I complied, but felt incredibly stupid because my poorly chosen "hot words" kept coming out of my mouth in the same tone an old farmer might use to explain the market price of cheese. "Oh," I said, as if explaining weather patterns, "you feel so good inside."

Much to my surprise, she had an almost immediate orgasm. Now, I'm not saying I was any good, because I wasn't. While I couldn't fuck my way out of a bowl of shrimp broth, it ends up she was simply one of those girls that could easily have an orgasm at the sight of a well-made chair, or proper bus change.

I spent the remainder of my high school years playing Wheel of Fortune during sex, trying to figure out which words girls liked, and which words caused them to literally have a seizure.

And I think Walter, whose horribly unfortunate personal ad we've posted today, needs to learn a few things about dirty talk. The point of dirty talk, of course, is to arouse a woman sexually. Walter only succeeds in arousing the remnants of a mildly pleasant mid-day lunch.

For example, I know if you're going to tell a woman you want to "plow her snatch," God help you if you're not standing in a Vietnamese rice paddy with a bag of seed and a trained mule. The only appropriate time to say "snatch" to a woman occurs when someone wearing a raincoat just drove off with her child in a brown van with a bubble window.

I know if you're going to say "cunt", you have about 2 seconds to either say "~inued", or pull out your British passport.

And I know if you're going to say "blowing your hole", you better be holding a pan flute and a driver's license identifying you as The Amazing Zamfir. In theory, you're planning on attracting a woman, not a migrating humpback whale.

If the brain is the largest sex organ, Walter is hung like a circumcised fruit fly. WWHM chooses to critique men's personal ads in order to showcase why women are so hostile sexually towards men sometimes, and if "banging your clit like a punching bag" doesn't sum it up, I don't know what would. While Walter's ultra-progressive logging-barge rhetoric might go over well with the boys after six lonely months at sea, Walter's reproductive grocery sack might soon suffer the brunt of such a descriptive beating, and I will happily sell season tickets and commemorative keychains to such an inspiring event.

Stick that in your hole, Walter.

Please post the worst thing a guy has ever said to you in bed in the comments.

I need a good laugh.

The Challenge

2009-03-25T19:04:00.000-07:00

Ladies Read This... You Want A Challenge?

Ok here is the challenge. I will bet you that no matter how Hott you are or think you are. No matter what you say or do sexually or what sexy outfit you wear. That YOU! Cannot get me to sleep with you with in the first three days! Just remember the hotter you are and the flirtier you are and the more sexual in your windows you are the better your chances are to get me to sleep with you with in those first three dates! Now if you win you get the gift certificate to the day spa. Now if I win you buy me a real steak dinner with the works and take me to some cool guy movie. -Adam XXX-XXX-XXXX

When I was a junior in high school, I wasn't considered much of a catch by the ladies. Girlish in stature and primarily governed by fears, even the mere thought of encountering a small flightless bird or indifferent moth turned my discount cotton briefs into a catch bin for what a 3 year-old girl might aptly describe as "tinkle."

My sexually experienced girlfriend at the time was anxious to house something inside her vagina not advertised as super-absorbent, and rightfully acknowledged I wasn't going to be the guy to do it. Clingy as a laundered sock yet paralyzed by chronic vagiphobia, I acted as though her pants contained a car bomb or hammerhead shark. Her vagina had become the trunkless elephant in the tiny room of our relationship, and she was looking for an experienced snout.

"I need a guy that's a challenge," she said, patting my piping-hot and urine-soaked leg.

Whilst I was lucky to learn at 15 that women prefer a challenge, some guys never get it. Rather than entice a woman with his intelligence, charm her with his humor or inspire her with his drive to succeed, some guys just hoist up their belly fat, snap a photo of their uncleansed balls, and serve them up to your computer screen like two cheese squares extracted from the hair bin at a Siamese cat groomer. Then they wonder "Where's the bitches at?" News flash: For women, the three most plentiful resources on this earth are air, water, and hard loser cock.

Adam heard the rumor that women love a challenge and took it literally, constructing a dating challenge for his personal ad daring you - I'll say that again, daring you - to make him want to sleep with you. Please ignore the fact Adam would sleep with you even if you arrived wearing horseshoes, a cast iron welding helmet, and spent the first hour eating dead houseflies off his kitchen floor.

Further ignore the fact that 99% of the single guys I know can easily go three days without sex. Clear the bench by snapping off a quick batch of Keebler elves and we'll be perfectly content watching a show about logging. Personally, I've gone three months, which might explain why I spent last night on a park bench in the red light district generously sprinkling crack rocks on the ground for prostitutes.

Finally, ignore the definition of challenge, which technically requires a winner. In Adam's challenge, even Helen Keller could see she loses either way. A facial from the spa first requires a facial from Adam, and even if you "lose", you owe a dumbass two hours of your time, a chunk of cow and a film about robots.

You missed the point Adam. To women, a challenge is a guy that does not want to sleep with them at all. They want to earn it. If a woman just wants cock, she can hurl a baboon turd out her window and hit any random guy walking along the street and he would happily tax her pussy like the IRS.

And really, any woman with intact synapses knows that's all you're after anyway. That's not a challenge. You're just another clueless online asstard trying to get his dick wet under the guise of a challenge no more difficult than beating a fire hydrant at Scrabble.

I have seen the future, and for you it has no vadgepass.

Enjoy.

Judgement Day

2009-03-17T21:45:00.000-07:00

Date Needed for Corporate Function

I am looking for an intelligent, educated, outgoing, elegant, and attractive, but most importantly, fun Caucasian or Asian girl to act as my date to my company’s outing at a 5-star restaurant.

To the Trash & Riff-Raff:
No, I am not paying you, I am not looking for an escort or a hooker…friggin’ skanks. If you are a single mom, live with your parents, don’t have a college degree, “working through beauty school”, or “getting over my ex who is in prison”--please contact me, so I can belittle your life choices.

If you can’t see your toes due to your gut, smoke or dip (ew), can’t hold your booze or depend on it to live, or have ever been involved with the words “ganja” or “blow”--don’t contact me, I’ll vomit on my keyboard.

If “personal expression” or “individuality through art” concepts are important to you, then by God, don’t get tattoos where idiots have them: neck, behind the ear, wrists, or any other places that state: “I will never have a professional career”.

To the Snobby Crowds:
No, I am not needy nor am I socially disabled, I hate bars and situations where I have to compete for your attention with meatheads, thugs, guidos, and guys old enough to be your dad: You aren’t better than me, and yes, while you are doing me a huge favor, take it as an interim interview period for yourself. Think of it as spring training before a grueling baseball season.

Please disregard me if the following applies to you: If you got your job because “daddy knows some people”, “My self-esteem is reflected in my implants”, “I always get my way--just like the Disney princesses I grew up watching” or “I LOVED Sex & the City”. I naturally hate you.

Now to Those That Still Are Applicable:
Thank you. I apologize for seeming to be an asshole, I hope it didn’t take having a kid, an abortion, or a shitty ex to make you realize how important having a good guy is. I hope you take my cynicism and sarcasm as my way of curbing my naturally aggressive tendencies of dealing with idiots of all genders and races.

Seth

I'm not saying Seth is judgemental or hates women, but last time I went over to his house for an anti-abortion party, he served a bowl of Democrat-flavored Hymen Chex.

We had a great time until his girlfriend Qing Tze accidentally voiced her opinion on the room temperature, at which point he wrapped her in a Confederate flag, forced her to tear up a copy of the Equal Rights Amendment, then deported her to Guangzhou, China. Where, ironically, she now sews American flags for 13 cents an hour.

Having exhausted the local supply of really fun and drug-free deaf, mute, and blind white women with natural breasts, dead fathers and no opinions, Seth now turns to the internet to find a date for a corporate function at a 5-star restaurant. After belittling your life choices, threatening to vomit on his keyboard, and proclaiming his natural hatred for 95% of the women in society, Seth ends his lengthy diatribe by self-righteously touting himself as "one of the good guys" and begging you to excuse his "cynicism and satire." Interesting, because the only way anyone would consider this ad "satire" is if Seth began the ad with a question like "Wouldn't it be funny if some angry fucking impotent cocksucker wrote an ad as horrible as the one I'm about to write?"

If pussies were eyelids, Seth's personality is tear gas. Casting stones from his lonely glass house, Seth passes judgement like an obese owl passes mouse bones. Tattooed women, hairdressers and single mothers all incur the vicious wrath of his tragically microscopic genitalia; sure, perhaps I'd be angry too if my penis resembled a cold and frightened seahorse nibbling at two salad capers, but I wouldn't take it out on the single mothers for which I was the cause. Single mothers become single mothers because of dicks like Seth. I'd try to leave him too, at least before an archaeologist from Chevron started chipping away at my fossilized vagina with a screwdriver.

If you think your dick is dry now Seth, your ad hasn't helped you. If I may quote you, think of it as spring training before a grueling baseball season. In two months your penis will crumble into a fine cock powder, accessing the throat of a female only if chopped with a razor and insufflated through a Burger King milkshake straw.

If you need someone to "act as your date" Seth, you're going to need Meryl Streep, who will likely win an Oscar for her performance as a woman who excuses herself to the bathroom and never returns. Otherwise, find a proctologist or someone else who can easily spend two hours with a painful asshole.

So huff and puff all you want Seth.

You're only going to end up blowing yourself.

Teacher's Pet

2009-03-13T18:10:00.000-07:00

Can you teach me how to eat pussy?

Hi. My name is Chris. I am 19 and looking to learn how to eat pussy really well. I am ok, but my girlfriend says I need a lot of practice. Can you please. Please help me? Thank you so much. Nothing more has to happen if you don't want to.

Yes, because every woman dreams of someday subcontracting out her vagina as a practice facility for young boys whose oral skills resemble a field mule gnawing corn kernels out of a fencepost.

Admittedly, Chris is facing a problem experienced by millions of young male teens every year; namely, he's facing a vagina, and realizing he has no more idea what to do with it than he would had you handed him a piece of string and a roll of scotch tape and told him to build an international space station.

Yet men are taught to face what frightens them, and in this case most young men aptly respond by sticking their face directly inside of what frightens them, usually generating a cacophony of slurping sounds normally reserved for a Shanghai won ton soup convention. He visualizes you writhing in ecstasy; you visualize a horse licking peanut butter from a window. Had the same oral enthusiasm been applied to the surface of his toilet, you could use it to serve pancakes to the Queen of England.

Hoping to acquire some inspiring tunes to play on his girlfriend's reproductive organs, Chris recently took his educational quest to the wondertubes where he posted a personal ad seeking a maestro in the oral arts. A noble effort indeed, yet we don't exactly expect Chris to receive the rousing response he desires; women generally don't respond favorably to requests made online that a man wouldn't have the balls to make in person. "Can I borrow a pen?" Sure! "Can I use your vagina as a feedbag?" Not likely. The difference? Asking such questions online removes the always irritable high-velocity impact of fashionable yet simplistic footwear with the underside of one's fatally exposed scrotum. Advantage: Internet.

In a perfect world, an enterprising woman will use Chris in the same fashion he intends to use them. In fact, I know a few technologically proficient elderly ladies down at the Sunshine Center who still have a pilot light burning in their ankle-length panties; what better way to wrap up a day of lawn bowling than downing a carafe of Maalox Plus while instructing a young and eager scamp to re-create prom night in your new triple-absorbent britches? It'll be just like that night with the blacksmith in the horse carriage 62 years ago. You want experience? You got experience.

Chris, if your girlfriend continues to come to bed with a genital bib hanging from her thighs, you still have work to do. In the meantime we suggest you practice on a ripe peach; they're always juicy, and they don't do their taxes while you eat them.

$ugarmama

2009-03-08T04:00:00.000-07:00

Someone treat me like I deserves to be treated

Lets face the facts I am unemployed and I don't want to get a job making only 10 dollar an hour. I am a above average looking male with beutiful cock looking for suger mama to spoil me rotten use my cock and pay my way for a little while! Why waste a beutiful cock? It now ready for you to use all the time!

Take me shopping, and a couple dollars gas money, and some going out money, and you get to play with my cock anytime you want nostrings atached! Kinky and I will always satisfy you. I lwill look good on your arm and im a great in bed, and Im willing to do chores around the house. Derek xxx-xxx-xxxx cell

Because nothing excites a woman more than going down on a man whose cock tastes like an unemployment office.

Garnish with job applications and lightly season with lawn care bags, and his genitals may become a bit more palatable if only for a few weeks; otherwise, he'll need a pair of clit-sized jumper cables and a Princess cruise ship battery to keep your arid vagina from sprouting a vibrant medley of sub-Saharan cactus plants.

The economy is bad folks, and Derek joins the growing legions of men trolling the internet for a sugarmama. Technically defined, a sugarmama works hard all day and earns a living whilst the man sits at home in a nest of Cheeto bags and Yoo-Hoo cartons with his beak open and tongue extended, incessantly chirping for scraps of your paycheck. In turn, you get all the hard cock you want, which, in this case, is probably none. Unless you need a hat holder.

Regurgitating hard-earned greenbacks to a grown infant with the motivational drive of a glacier taxes the sexual psyche of even the most fervent female nymphomaniac; after a week of listening to him recap Judge Judy highlights, her sex drive will park itself in a museum somewhere between Eli Whitney's original cotton gin and a mule-powered wheat combine.

Derek assumes a woman would want to fuck an unemployed freeloader just because "he has a beautiful cock," which is like assuming she's dumb enough to buy a piece of shit car just because it has a shiny muffler. Both are equally embarrassing, and God forbid she had to take either to a high school reunion; at least she can park the car down the street. Derek hovers like a shadow that's constantly low on cash.

"So what do you do for a living Derek?" her high school friends would inevitably ask.

"Nothing," Derek would say with a smirk, "I don't work because I don't feel like it."

It's at this point you'd affix an anti-scratch dog cone to your head and ooze backwards out of the room like a salted slug on a Phoenix sidewalk. You're officially dating a loser, the same guy who's now trying to write down another woman's phone number on the back of a $1 food stamp.

WWHM's solution?

Get a new tattoo above your pussy.

"Now Hiring."

I Hate Women, But ...

2009-03-01T01:33:00.000-08:00

Show me you’re not all the same. - 26

Through my dealings with the fairer sex throughout my life, I have become completely disillusioned with females and have now resorted to the internet in an effort to find one that I can at least tolerate for extended periods of time.

You want to know about me? I’ll tell you what I’m not.

1) I am not your father. I will not tolerate childish bullshit when you don’t get your way and I will not throw money at you to shut you up.
2) I am not your hobby. That’s why you have friends.
3) I am not someone who puts the toilet seat down after I urinate. You’re a big girl now and if you can’t be bothered to so much as look at where you’re about to park your ass, you deserve the cold embrace of toilet water.

As a staunch rationalist, I realize you’re probably every bit as bitter with men as I am with your cunt compatriots. My theory is you have not yet lost all hope so we can end our days in perpetual bliss or whatever storybook bullshit those cookie cutter girls get off on.

My ideal woman takes care of herself to some degree. We can’t help certain aspects of our appearance, but if you don’t bathe regularly and have eaten yourself fat it demonstrates a fatal lack of respect for yourself that one would expect to bleed into other aspects of your behavior.

Send me an email that makes me think, laugh, or hope. For the love of a God in which I don’t even believe, just someone show me you’re not all the same.

Peter

Meet Peter, the number one reason mermaids break into applause when they discover they don't have a vagina.

But if you do have a vagina, congratulations. Peter would like to introduce himself to you, followed by kicking your dog in the nuts.

Peter recently sat down to write a personal ad but ended up writing an obituary for his own balls. If "I am not someone who puts the toilet seat down after I urinate" is your siren song for the ladies Peter, then I suggest you entertain your sperm with a Travel Scrabble and some comfortable folding chairs. Here's a familiar word they can start with: Sweatsock.

Yet WWHM cannot help but suckle sweetly from the engorged teat of irony; Peter hates women, but yearns deeply for what he claims to so despise. Hence, his personal ad takes on the morbid tone of a six year-old boy forced by his mother to beg for an urn of boiled turnips.

Tortured by his animosity towards the female sex, yet fueled by his desire for pussy, Peter labors through 5 painful and pouty paragraphs by huffing and puffing, stomping his feet, and spilling applesauce all over his bib. Don't fight it Peter; pussy is like a bend in space. That shit sucks everything in. If you want to get angry about it, go ahead and write a complaint to Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs.

If you've ever dated a gay Viking, that pretty much sums Peter as a date. He'll probably pee on you at some point in the evening, he certainly won't compliment you on your dress, and he won't want to touch you at all. But when it's time to get what he wants, he'll just club you with an oar and take it. It's your choice ladies; a polar bear may find comfort in the loneliness and frigid conditions that waft so freely in the confines of Peter's moth-ridden Target briefs, but you don't have to.

And on a personal note Peter, if you plan on dropping the C-bomb in a personal ad, prepare yourself for an inevitable explosion of masturbation.

"Send me an email that makes me think, laugh, or hope. "

Good advice Peter.

Use it.

The Scraper

2009-02-22T16:20:00.000-08:00

I Would Love to Gently Shave You

Are you a sensual female who enjoys being pampered in a safe sensual way by a very loving attractive single male?

I would like to find a very nice female who would like to have her private area gently shaved. Many women either through busy careers or relationships have not had the chance to receive this type of attention. I will wash you, apply shaving cream slowly, then gently shave you while you have your legs spread on my shoulders. Hopefully you will find this to be arousing and a beautiful trusting experience.

I'm offering my love and my gentleness to you if you are in need of relaxation and pleasure to escape from life's stresses. I will help you rediscover your sensual self in a safe loving environment. I would love to explore with you, be close friends. My tender fingers guiding you to pleasure, releasing your most intimate desires. Gently touching the intimate areas of your beautiful body.

Antonio

Because nothing screams "a safe and trusting encounter" like handing a sharp razor to a complete stranger you meet on the internet.

Need an alternative? Put on some mutton panties and squat in a piranha tank.

Antonio scribes an impossibly creepy personal ad that virtually drowns in a pool of its own cheese. Sounding like a cross between an overzealous gynecologist after a six martini lunch and a story question in the appendix of A Dummies Guide to Spiritual Sexuality, Antonio soothingly wafts his way through a gag-worthy amalgamation of supportive buzzwords designed for a new-age couples counseling session. "I would love to explore with you, be close friends." No thanks Antonio, but for the record, your personal ad completely curdled my fresh glass of milk. And for that, I'd like to kick you right in your gentles.

It's as if Antonio actually believes that after a hard day at work, an endless string of errands, and a terrible commute home, a woman wants nothing more than to just kick off her shoes and have her vagina shaved. A soothing spa, a warm sauna, or a deep tissue massage? "No thanks," you might say, "to really relax, I just need to find a random individual online to come over and weedwhack my crotch hair."

Like most personal ads, I suspect Antonio formulated his genital shaving ideology from repeated exposure to hardcore porn flicks. As such, a woman couldn't possibly shave herself without finishing off the process with a frenzied and orgasmic masturbation session. Believe me, I used to watch my girlfriend shave herself in the shower all the time, and erotic is the last word I'd use to describe the process.

Paying no mind to the activity at hand, she often shaved her pussy in the same manner a chicken might furiously scratch its way through a pea patch, producing a grating sound similar to a cat entertaining a new set of drapes with his sharpened claws. Replicating my lawn-mowing technique when I was 10, she did just enough to complete the job and make it look like there was nothing out of the ordinary from a distance. But a closer look often revealed numerous flaws.

But if your idea of scintillating shaving session involves a registered hippie with a beard full of granola grains sculpting your vagina into the shape of a bird in flight, why not? You might even get some free scented hot rocks and a bag of "emotion" beads out of the deal.

Good luck in your venture Antonio, and might I suggest if you want some practice, try shaving your neighbors cat. If you think that thing squirms endlessly to get away from you, just imagine how much a real pussy will put up a fight.

Disasster

2009-02-20T18:07:00.000-08:00

I got a bitch ass - 31 yr man seeking woman

What do you think of my ass? When I wear tight jeans my ass looks like a womans ass. I think it does.

Tristan

If there were ever reason to apply a rich, gelatinous paste of beef tallow and catnip extract to your eyeballs and rig a box of feral cats to your face, I think you just found it.

Yet perhaps Tristan's decision to showcase his absurdly feminine poop clipper in his personal ad is well founded; a recent Men's Health magazine survey of 1,000 women concluded that women find a man's ass the third most attractive feature of the male physique.

As men, that's no surprise to us. For years we've been promptly and violently lambasted for stealing nary a yearning glance at your breasts, yet the minute we turn our backs your gluttonous eyes instantly microwave our asses into a couple of well-steamed, juicy Christmas hams. You couldn't be any more obvious had you spackled our buttocks with frosting and started gnawing on our nubile asshalves like a gerbil trapped inside a block of nutrient-rich cheese.

So typical of women these days- show her a nice ass and she has to go and start spawning like an Alaskan salmon. Harlots!

Yet for Tristan we must unfortunately qualify the true findings of the Men's Health survey: asses were also ranked upon style. High-ranking styles of ass included the arrogant yet steely "can crusher" ass, the rabid and unforgiving "oar snapper" ass, and the brutally ferocious "Thrustasaurus Wrecks."

Low ranking styles included the always drab "mossy picnic table" style of ass, the uninspiring "onion bag burdened with horseshoes" ass, and in last place, the girlish and pillowy "bitch ass."

Generally speaking Tristan, women find female ass characteristics on a male ass abhorrent; buoyant and marshmallow soft, your ass resembles the ever-fragrant and beefy toes of an elephant or other bog-based pachyderm. Yet perhaps even more striking is the remarkable chasm usurped by the seam of your ladypants. I don't know where you put your asshole, but if I find chapped orb of puckered skin shaped like an Apple Jack in the lint trap, I'll rehydrate it with corn oil and slide it under your pillow. If your cat starts choking, call a proctologist immediately.

Has Tristan started a new dating trend by modeling his ass on the internet bulletin boards? We don't know, but personally, WWHM isn't going to take dating advice from Tristan any more than we'd allow a sea otter to teach us how to drive a school bus.

Stay tuned.

Table For One

2009-02-18T04:49:00.000-08:00

Greetings and welcome to Captain One Eye's dinner theater 46M

Come listen to exciting tales of Captain One Eye's world travels and meet his faithful sidekick, Willie the Baloney Pony. Dinner tonight features an appetizer of kisses, followed by a second course of oral sex, and a main course consisting of a hearty portion of super hard man sausage artfully presented with Captain One Eye's special cream sauce. And one lucky lady will win the opportunity to meet Captain One Eye personally, and take a ride to Nirvana on Willie the Baloney Pony. Don't miss out on this exciting opportunity, seating is very limited. Email Captain One Eye aka Mark at xxxxxxx@ xxxxx.xxx

With guys like Mark, you really just have to give up any sense of hope.

Pussy is so foreign to him he'd probably try to feed it potato chips.

Pull down your little mini-skirt, and chances are Mark would scoop your vagina into a mason jar and scurry up a tree like a squirrel that just found a Mars Bar.

Sure we've seen worse ads here at WWHM headquarters, but I know women that would rather pedal a rusty tricycle three miles uphill in a driving hailstorm to fuck an unemployed male metermaid in the goat-milking pit of a petting zoo. And as most experienced WWHM readers know, nothing fucking strokes our fur backwards more than grown men utilizing childish and pseudo-clever story constructions in their personal ads; we'd much rather just entertain another run-of-the-mill online derelict presenting a grainy cellphone visage of his oiled penis to women as if it were a photo of a giggling child in a Santa sweater.

Because hey, at least they're being honest about what they're bringing to the table.

But when you run ads like Table For One, The Vagina Whisperer or Cock Talk, you're simply providing a glaring showcase for your sexual immaturity towards women, while simultaneously trying to get them to fuck you. Believe me, for every 5,000 guys online trying to find pussy, there might be one desperate woman trying to find a dick. And with all those options out there, she's going to want to find a dick that treats her womb like a monkey trying to fish coins out of a jar. Not a guy who pumps, dumps, and wonders why she's staring at you like you just shot her dog.

Your deftly crafted childhood fable of Captain One-Eye and Willie the Baloney Pony might go over well during "Bad Story Hour" at the Greenacres Library, but women already know how the story will end.

An uninvited guest appearance by "Fingers" McGee.

Single Male. Needs Girlfriend.

2009-02-16T15:00:00.000-08:00

For once my friends, WWHM simply has no words.

Thanks Tina!

Misguided Thinking

2009-02-10T22:44:00.001-08:00

Downtown Hotel

married white male seeking NSA fun. Nice guy, safe to be with. Looking for a friend to enjoy the morning and maybe the afternoon with. Room service included.

Kip xxx-xxx-xxxx

WWHM used to have a small audience of doe-eyed and dainty society ladies in butter-churning bonnets visiting our blog on a daily basis, giggling innocently into their tiny cupped fingers as they sipped hot chamomile tea and painstakingly knitted tiny earmuffs for handicapped children in Botswana.

Today, posting to WWHM is like hurling bloody slabs of gazelle meat into a pit of starved wolves. Disturbed WWHM female readers scream relentlessly for disgusting cock pics on WWHM, banging their machine-dulled utensils upon the stainless steel surfaces of bolted down prison tables, oblivious to the trembling guards in lab coats at their sides wielding high voltage cattle prods and cannisters of tear gas. What are you, a bunch of fucking Vikings?

Believe me, I'm surrounded with so many cock pics at WWHM headquarters you'd think my office was located deep inside Nadya Sulman's 24-hour fucking cocaine party of a womb. Every morning I open my email inbox, I'm assaulted with an armada of greased penises fully capable of extinguishing the white-hot hydrogen fueled flames of the Hindenberg with a protein-rich and adhesive stream of stunted fucking genetics. Yet WWHM finally bows to community pressure today, and presents you with a personal ad from Kip. Or, I should say, Kip's penis.

Because yes, that is a penis, and Kip offers it up to you in the same manner a white-gloved waiter might lift a silver tray of elegant European cheeses to your nose for an inviting sniff. Sniff not my friends, as the sour stench of desperation is overwhelming; I'm not saying Kip set the bar low for his weak effort at getting laid, but at first glance it appears as though Kip might be casually waiting for a cross-town bus outside an understaffed housing facility for disoriented seniors. "Hey Kip," a guard might yell out, "stop leaving your fucking pants in the pudding bin."

Per your presentation Kip, the horniest woman on the planet wouldn't approach that atrophied cock if it was made out of fucking cheesecake and shot an endless string of sparkling South African diamonds around her neck with the pinpoint accuracy of a decorated sniper. Tease them as you will with a pair of hastily dropped Hanes briefs binding your ankles like a 3 year-old preparing to pee in a plastic johnny toilet covered with dinosaur stickers, it nary makes up for the fact that I've had a dried moth carcass blowing lightly around my windowsill for six months that exhibits a more charismatic sexual exuberance than your quivering and bulbous birthing hips.

Guys like Kip post cock shots somehow believing the grainy cellphone visage of a penis ensconced with what appears to be an unkempt housecat miraculously ignites the libido of a woman with some type of primal sexual spark; yet Playgirl recently went bankrupt for a reason, and it wasn't because chicks were clamoring to catch a gander of Fabio's wilted Circus Circus bargain buffett breakfast sausage laying lifelessly across his leg like a shot squirrel. If you want your cock to spark something, go stand on a beach riddled with undernourished field wrens at 6 am and lay it on a beach log; you'll spark a flurry of violent beak strikes that will leave your manhood looking like a perforated bicycle tire.

Order that room service for one, Kip.

And order a fucking razor.

The Weeper

2009-02-09T01:58:00.001-08:00

i am a sensetive man- 44m

i am a man who love nature, and all the things in it to behold. who are we to judge it? i am a man that will cry out for you when you are not near me. i am a man not afraid of my feelings for you, when held by a woman who holds me with the soft touch of her brest. i am a man who will cry tears when we make love, for my love will feel so deeply for you inside. i am a man who cries waiting for yours response. i yern for your soft and gentel kisses. kevin

Yeah, we get it Kevin. You're a really fucking sensitive guy.

When not rushing to assist a frightened young deer with the birthing of her first fawn, one might find you wistfully cursing at the unbridled freedom of the deep blue sky. Your heart yearns to sketch a solitary dewdrop, yet the beauty is simply too painful; how can one accurately replicate the tears of a bygone season?

Women may find a portion of your sensitivity attractive Kevin, but even a clan of starved fucking Eskimos would flee from your relentless onslaught of blubber. Exploring your emotional side may have worked in your 20's, but now you're 44 years-old; at some point you need to gnaw away at the nutrient-rich placenta you wear as a goddamn picnic hat and put on a pair of open-toed sandals to take a Hollywood studio tour in a loud shirt.

Because women are wise to this game, my friend. And history can prove it.

After years of complaining about the sexual brutality of the dominant male, prehistoric women gradually found themselves beginning to sexually appreciate the less dominant and sensitive males who stayed behind during the hunt to paint images of sunsets on cave walls and grunt rhythmically about glacial deposits. Never ones to pass up a free meal, other cavemen quickly adjusted by showcasing their softer sides.

Unfortunately, this blew up in the face of women. In no time, they found themselves mired in a society full of plant-gathering, cave-cleaning, soft-cocked sissy boys that sat around on rocks all day complaining they couldn't hunt because "it was too foggy."

Rather than sleep with a bunch of bird-fearing, fire-dousing girly apes, women straddled porous stones and hoped for earthquakes while furiously whittling ivory tusks into the shape of the cave cocks they had once been so relentlessly pounded by. "Homo-Erectus my ass!" they exclaimed, "Why don't you Flaccidius Minimus motherfuckers just go outside and try not to cry when you're startled by the sudden hissing of a nursing squirrel."

I recommend you keep your sensitivity in check, Kevin. Women might find a little emotion attractive, but walking into the kitchen to find you breast feeding an injured sparrow crosses the line. Women can only withstand so many rivers of phlegm during a Meredith Baxter-Birney Lifetime marathon, and they're supposed to be hers.

Buck up, motherfucker. Keep weeping like a bitch, and you'll drive your women into the arms of a unemployed, heroin-addicted rock band drummer who eats fucking nails for amusement.

And she'll fucking love it.

So Who Is The Real Bitch Now, Bitch?

2009-01-30T13:50:00.000-08:00

Welcome to WWHM.

As our thousands of faithful WWHM readers know, we've put up a couple posts on WWHM in the last few months showing some of the psychotic, pathetic and bizarre missives crafted by recently spurned men.

We thought the idea was interesting enough to make a suggestion to WWHM readers that they send in any letters, emails, texts or recorded phone messages they have stored on their computers from men who currently house a piece of your goddamn foot straight up their ass.

Because when you dump a guy, he's trolling around with his buddies telling everyone what a fucking bitch you are.

Meanwhile, when he's at home all alone at night in his scared little place, he's writing you pathetic, psychotic and rambling emails and letters because he's a fucking pussy and he can't own up to the fact that he loves you or wants you or whatever.

And believe me, these motherfuckers can write. These guys are writing goddamn novellas, minus the dainty ponies, the dewy fields of wheat, and that weird Indian guy that always pops up with some wise ass shit to say.

We got quite a response from our request for letters, and we decided to post them in a new companion blog. Now, you will find some but not all the sarcastic commentary you find here on WWHM, but you will indeed find the darkened and trampled hearts of guys who apparently should have a background check done before they are even allowed to wield a pair of dull second-grade art classroom scissors. Is WWHM going anywhere? Absolutely not.

So without further ado, I present to you a new blog from WWHM.

The Psychotic. The Pathetic. The Bizarre.

A forum to show men who the real bitch is.

Psychotic Letters From Men

Disguised

2009-01-26T21:29:00.000-08:00

I need a meaningful relationship... 53/m

I really want a relationship, but I need to find out why a woman justs wants to have sex with me and nothing else. I mean they're all willing to come over for sex, but anything else is out of the question. They just want sex and all I want is a meaningful relationship. Is it too much to ask?

Is it about my manhood?
I have such a great package, and what I do with it is even more interesting.

Maybe it is my amazing oral abilities that scares them?
My tongue is a normal length, but the softness, and the way I flatten it out, and how I move it makes even my lesbian ex's miss me.

Maybe they can't handle all the gushing orgasms?
I know women like it when I move that slow dance I move. For some reason that move I do makes things very very messy...But in a good way. In a way that makes them wonder what the HELL just happened to me? I've never done that before! Maybe it's because I know how to make woman just explode everywhere. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about.

Oh well, still if there are any of you woman out there that want to help me figure out what's wrong with me, you know what to do... I just want to be in loving relationship with a good woman. Seth

For his next trick, Seth will place his balls in a teacup and tell you it's fucking won-ton soup.

In a brilliant move, Seth has attempted to ingeniously disguise his personal ad seeking sex as a genuine plea for a meaningful relationship. Yeah, that works out pretty well for you Seth. As an encore, I'm going to tape two bee wings to a horse and tell everyone it's a fucking canary. Your ad doesn't fly Seth, but it certainly attracts flies.

It attracts flies because your personal ad is nothing but a shit sandwich. Your false pleas for a relationship at both ends of your personal ad merely symbolize the slices of softened bread which you desperately hope to crisp in the nearest woman's cock toaster. And betwixt these flaccid and flimsy slices of bread, you present an unbelievable layer of shit, bespeckled only by the hollowed kernels of corn that symbolize your empty lies. Let's have a chew on some of those peanuts of truth, shall we?

"My tongue is a normal length, but the softness, and the way I flatten it out, and how I move it makes even my lesbian ex's miss me."

You weakly attempt to make a preposterous point that you eat pussy better than a lesbian. But even the pea-sized hypothalamus of a teenage barn snake could extract the deeper meaning within- the interesting fact that more than one of your exes is now a lesbian. Coincidence? I think not. Perhaps your penis fulfills a prescription for Sominex, yet cannot fulfill a woman- understandable when an intial penetration feels like inserting a quartered snack carrot through the St. Louis arch. And perhaps one might equivocate your oral technique to that of an elderly woman tongue-suckling the juice off the nubbin of a moistened pickle at a senior home gherkin expo.

"Maybe it's because I know how to make woman just explode everywhere. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

I know three things that make women explode everywhere; cheating men, unripe green apples with skin, and food poisoning. I don't know which method you use, but my ex-girlfriend read your ad and immediately stated her preference for fucking a punchbowl of E coli.

"I know women like it when I move that slow dance I move."

At 53 years-old I assume you employ some type of ancient Viagra-fueled Lawrence Welk penis polka set to the pleasant musical fumblings of Dick Sitka and His All-Harpsichord Quartet. "Sweatin' to the Oldies" was a Richard Simmons workout tape, not a fantasy theme for desperate women.

What's wrong with you Seth?

You're an ass of the highest order, a false and embellishing braggart humiliating himself in the name of a piece of ass for which you will never have a taste. Enjoy meandering through the fog of your scripted sexual past, because when you come to the clearing that is reality, the crisp and cool air of truth shalt emerge:

If you were that good in bed, you wouldn't be wasting your days dreaming up wayward schoolboy sexual scenarios for a desperate and delusional personal ad.

The Power!

2009-01-19T22:23:00.000-08:00

Looking for a fun date 28m

I'm looking for a beautiful woman to accompany me to dinner. Hopefully you are interesting and appreciate my sense of humor. Honestly, I want to get laid of course so you must be the sexual type.

Long term is possible. I am an avid rock climber and enjoy water skiing and hope to compete next year at XXXXXXXXXX. I hope you might enjoy these things but once again I want have sex so please keep that in mind. If you aren't horny than please don't waste my time.

Matt

Today the Weasel will channel Matt's ad to teach women to truly understand and appreciate the overwhelming power of Sperm.

I don't think women spend much time thinking about Sperm. Sure, they know it's something they have to chisel off their ribcage in the morning with a fingernail. They know it tastes like something that leaked out of a helicopter gearbox, and the nuanced flavor tends to haunt their mouth like a Tide-flavored poltergeist. Most importantly, they at least know not to let Sperm around their free-range eggs when nature calls for the cock of a tattooed fry cook born with webbed flippers and some type of fucking bird beak on his forehead.

To men however, Sperm is a version of God. Just take away the powers of fire, lightning and locusts, and replace them with the Power of Pillowstaining, the Power of Bleach, and a wide array of refreshingly original freestyle swimming strokes.

What women don't know is that Sperm makes guys do stupid fucking shit. Ask any guy the stupidest fucking thing he's ever done, and undoubtedly that act will lead directly back to Sperm. Confront Sperm with the evidence, and He'll just sit there whistling and shrugging His shoulders, as if He actually had shoulders. We, as men, must take full responsibility for Sperm's actions. Because without Sperm, we are weak. We are pasty little lambs frightened of our shadows and the wind created by passing flies.

Matt's ad is a perfect example of the power of Sperm. I'm sure Matt's actually a great guy and not as self-centered as his ad appears. So let's take a closer look at what actually transpired:

Matt: "I'm looking for a beautiful woman to to accompany to dinner......".

Sperm: "YOU WILL WRITE 'I HONESTLY WANT TO GET LAID'."

Matt: "I don't know Sperm, I think that's just a little forward and some women might construe it as........."

Sperm "YOU WILL DO IT NOW!"

Matt: Yes sir.

Five minutes later:

Matt: "Long term is possible. I am an avid..........."

Sperm: "YOU WILL WRITE 'IF YOU'RE NOT HORNY DON'T WASTE MY TIME!"

Matt: "Now come on Sperm. I will have zero chance of .... .... . "

Sperm: "YOU WILL DO IT NOW OR I WILL SHRINK YOUR FUCKING SACK AND COAT YOUR FUCKING FACE WITH ACNE!"

Matt: Yes, sir.

As you can see, Matt is simply a worthless pawn in Sperm's game. And the problem is Sperm simply has no game with women.

So how, you ask, do you release a man from Sperm's grip? You must release the Sperm, and if you don't know how to do that yet, you need to visit a Bakersfield biker bar at 1 am with an edible thong, five tabs of ecstasy and a three-ply dental dam.

For after a man ejaculates he is finally a man of his own devices for five minutes, a man with no Sperm. And as you'll immediately discover, a man powered simply by his own devices is a weak, whining little worthless bitch who doesn't want you to touch him and just wants to sleep in the fetal position. So what is a woman to do?

Nothing. You're totally, completely fucked.

Sorry.

(Thankfully, we don't have to listen to the endless confusing ministrations and 577 languages of Vagina. That thing has more opinions than fucking CitySearch. I'm surprised women don't just walk around in circles clucking like a goddamn chicken.)

Just Another Day at WWHM......

2009-01-18T11:45:00.000-08:00

CUCUMBER, CORN, and Toys - 34m

I have CUCUMBERS and Corn and other toys, for any local women that are interested.

They are kind of like cocks, except we can eat it when your done! :)

Mark

They are kind of like cocks, except unlike Mark, they can stay hard.

I don't know what etiquette class you took Mark, but I believe cock extenders go on the right, and the anal lube goes on the left.

Picture Perfect

2009-01-16T14:41:00.001-08:00

NEED A GOOD WOMAN

Looking for a nice woman to chat with and maYbe meet sometime. Age and size does not matter to me. If you like my pic just hit me back I have more pics for you to see and you can send me one to

THANKS Adam

Fairweather maidens, please behold with squinted eye and sealed nostril the fucking unstoppable sex tractor that WWHM proudly presents today if only to stir your loins like so many industrial urns full of frothy International House of Pancakes waffle batter. "Stop knitting me that odor-absorbent open-crotched thong, good woman," he might coo, "I need you to perform a thorough hand recount of my hanging chads." You wanted class, and nothing screams class more vehemently than a mule-cocked ex-con in sunglasses testing the limits of the stretchy and forgiving fabrics of mid-80s pop-n-lock Hammer pants in a Photoshopped personal ad.

Good women seeking a good man need look no further than Adam. A confident man besmocked
with discounted linens, fully-engorged genitals and poorly clipped houseplants, Adam maintains the visage of an everyday man, just as comfortable talking shop with your yarn group as he would be mowing down hundreds of innocent civilians in a hail of gunfire at your local feed store. And behind his mysterious sunglasses, Adam finger tickles the hidden clitoral fantasies of the sheltered vixen hiding inside all good women by simply leaning back, showcasing his erection like an item up for bid on The Price is Right, and pondering the unanswered question “Whence forth shalt a prudent, church-going missus come gnaw on my enormous tubesteak?”

Cast aside assumptions his moth-gnawed off-brand leopard briefs emanate a potpourri of nasal flavorings ranging from the muted tanginess of unscrubbed taint to hints of the sour morning breath exhaled by a hungover chain-smoking street pigeon gargling the amniotic fluids of a pregnant housecat.

Extract the chewed badger innards from his wiry beard, surround him with children, and show him a close-up photo of his grandmother bent over the stove in a set of crotchless panties to gingerly deflate the skin blimp taking flight in his trousers, and you practically have Pat Sajak teaching Bible study at a church camp.

Take heed vibrators, Adam just guaranteed you another six-month contract.

Unmet Needs

2009-01-15T01:19:00.000-08:00

feeling very needy right now-39M

my girlfreind left me for another man leaving me all alone, Do you want to be helper in making my life better, I need someone to take care of me and cook for me help me wash my clothes and help me going to work until my car is fixed. I am 6 feet tall and avergae sized, would like to meet women, and please have car for work, i will try and help you pay you back. i am alergic to cats also so don't have cats

Ben xxx-xxx-xxxxx xxxxxx @ xxxxxx.com

A friend recently offered WWHM some insight on how she views a personal ad. “I take little bits and pieces from a personal ad and put it together like a puzzle,” she said. “Simple words and phrases offer tremendous insight, and by assembling the pieces you can create an image of whether he's a curious adventurer, a powerful businessman, or even an intellectual genius.” WWHM applied this thoughtful technology to Ben's personal ad, and all we could create was an image of a colostomy bag chain-smoking Pall Malls in a high chair.

Ben has written a personal ad primarily to tell you all about his needs. He needs someone to cook for him, he needs someone to do his laundry, and most importantly he needs someone to give him a ride to work … …. and something tells me you won't be pulling up to the front door of the Goldman Sachs trading floor.

Interestingly, after reading Ben's personal ad women also discovered they had some needs. Needs such as a burlap sack full of minted sheep balls to slap the 18th century off Ben's face into his snot-soaked Snoopy bib. Needs such as an areola extractor to decouple Ma Kettle's dehydrated teet from Ben's pursed and quivering lips. Needs such as a twine and oak ass joist to hoist Ben's sorry butt from the Frito-encrusted second-hand couch he's been living on to the laundry room at the Poughkipsee Eazy-Snore Inn where he could learn that even a mildly retarded and legally blind penguin can do a fucking load of laundry with a flipper tied behind his back and a rat gnawing on the webbing between his toes.

The truth is we all know a someone who dates a guy like Ben. "He's just misunderstood," they say with a frozen block of Bullseye TV dinner mashed potatoes over their blackened eye, "he just needs to get out of a rut." Yeah, we know honey. If the unmotivated genius inside would just crawl out of that tangle of Schmidt beer cans he's been hiding under for the past eight years, surely he'd cure cancer, run a Fortune 500 company, or even clean up a piece of dog shit that's been sitting on the carpet so long it can stink in six languages. Meanwhile, she calls you every day whimpering "..... he's ..... just ..... not .... changing."

If you want change, go buy an Atlanta Apartment Guide with a $20 bill, and you'll have two opportunities for change in one second.

But meanwhile you're destined for the set of Judge Judy to argue over a 1982 Men at Work cassette tape left in the glove compartment of a station wagon that's been sitting on bricks for four years. "I'm fixing the station wagon," he says, leafing through a Ferrari catalogue to choose which model he might buy once he gets out of his Dairy Queen greeter career if only someone gave him a chance.

Then he blames you for stale soup crackers and the minute surface temperature changes of his napping pillow. Because he has needs to be met, and you will never meet them. So why do women stay with guys like Ben?

Oh yeah, that's right.

Because he loves you!

Feel free to admit you've dated a fucking loser in the comments.

A Charitable Donation

2009-01-11T21:43:00.000-08:00

ALLOW ME TO HELP SOLVE YOUR HUSBANDS INFERTILITY PROBLEM

I am a 56 year old male. I have decided to get a vasectomy next month and I would like to impregnate a woman before I have this procedure done. It would behoove you to act quickly for maximum exposure to my sperm. I will only do this naturally without condoms. If your husband can't do the job, I can.

Having been asked previously by several couples who were friends of mine to donate sperm, I learned from their doctors that I have an extreme sperm level. I can give you multiple loads of sperm per meeting to increase your chances of getting pregnant.

Many of my physical traits are influenced by recessive genes. Therefore, it is most likely that the child would resemble the mother in most instances. It will be easy to deceive your family and friends into thinking it is your husbands child. It will be our secret. You will not see me again.

If you are 18-24, healthy, attractive, I am available to you. I will be very attentive, supportive, and encouraging, during this process. My vasectomy is in 5 weeks so it would behoove you to contact me as soon as possible.
Gary xxxxxxxx@ xxxxxx .com

….. and just when you think you will never have to think about Gary again, the baby will utter his very first word …...

Behoove.

Gary has decided to lock his birds in the aviary, but not before he makes a last ditch effort to pass on his modesty, his charming demeanor, but most importantly, multiple loads of his totally fucking "extreme sperm". Unfortunately, at 56, extreme sperm might refer to five or six sperm bickering about seasonal weather changes over a Denny's breakfast menu. Put a Bingo sign on your vagina and install a wheelchair access ramp, and you may be able to lure them into your womb if only to proudly display a sprouting assemblage of severely inflamed bunions to your yawning, disinterested eggs.

Free impregnation personal ads like this one continue to flood WWHM world headquarters like so many Valtrex coupons and genital crab pamphlets. Thinly disguised as charitable offers, a trained eye can easily spot the elderly author's willing donation of his piping hot semen as a disingenuous attempt to coerce female participation in repeated rounds of totally hot and juicy, if not tantalizingly forbidden, teen sex. “I will only do this naturally without condoms,” Gary says, forcing hundreds of ovulating young ladies to immediately book reservations for a candlelight dinner with a cold petri dish and a bag of dry ice.

Gary claims veteran status when it comes to impregnating his friends, his erection rotating like a lawn sprinkler to repeatedly apply a generous and even coat of recessive genes to the hats, scarves and reproductive organs of ever-thankful townsfolk. Acquiring recessive genes may sound appealing at first to a woman hoping to bear a child with a likeness similar to hers, but she may re-consider when she discovers that would also involve sexual intercourse with a thin-lipped and bald albino hemophiliac with a double-jointed forehead and fused eye sockets. Beauty might be only skin deep, but when you're fucking a nearsighted yard gnome with permanently flared nostrils, WWHM strongly suggests you first incorporate alcoholism into your own genetic traits.

Every man has a natural predilection to spread his seed from the moment he first attempts to impregnate a Cosmopolitan magazine binding staple at 12 years of age. But WWHM feels Gary crossed the line with this pathetic attempt to get laid before he snips the feed lines to his udder. If you want to get laid, earn it or pay for it. But don't masquerade as a knight-in-shining armor when you're just the village milkman with a van full of spoiled and sour product.

"You will not see me again."

We can only hope Gary.

Self-Tanning Gone Wrong

2009-01-09T22:32:00.000-08:00

Eyebrows tweezed: check

Proper application of Sav-Mart mousse: check

Lipstick for men: check

Self-tanning lotion applied: check check check check check check check check check check check check check check check check check.

By the end of the night, this poor girl is going to look like she got in a fight with some poo.

(photo courtesy of HCwDB)

WWHM Goes Balls-Free!

2009-01-05T00:29:00.000-08:00

WANTED: SNUGGLE BUNNY!!!

So much cold weather lately has got this lad missing having a snuggle bunny to curl up with. Don't you wish you had the soft, warm touch all over your body while being gently caressed and kissed? If so, read on!

My bunny looks cute (in everything) & loves to snuggle & has a soft nice relaxing voice (don't want ear screeching when we're snuggling) & available to snuggle as early as this weekend. Color of fur, tail size, floppy ears, doesn't concern me!

I love all types of movies, lots of hobbies, great listener, love to bunny hop(dance), listen to music, nature walk, walk on the waterfront at sunset holding hands followed by dinner at a nice restaurant of your liking........ This bunny is 21, handsome, cute, funny, sensitve, six feet tall, and has been described as having "lovely" hazel eyes who gives a really warm hugs!

Please bmail (bunny mail) with a picture and lets hop from there. This bunny's selections criteria is the cutest little furry bunny tail and smile. Being a great kisser adds bunnypoints!!! Jason xxxxxxxx @ xxxxxx.com

Ladies and gentleman, sometimes WWHM feels our poor readers deserve a break.

A break from the flavorless buffet of impotent assclowns who pepper the internet with personal ads surmising that all a woman requires to be happy in this world is a semi-hard dick, a milk crate to sit on, and a new ironing board every Christmas. A break from the braying, mouse-cocked barn mules who soak internet bulletin boards with their obese and hair-matted torsos, cursing the supermodels of the world for not promptly attending to their untrimmed toenails. And if you think WWHM is bad now, just wait until Google releases OdorBlogger v. 1.0. During WWHM test runs, the unbridled and freewheeling aromas of uncleansed male taint forced us to gasp for fresh air by plowing our deep-green faces into the bloated and unforgiving carcass of a decomposing narwhal full of undigested piling barnacles.

So today WWHM thought we'd throw our readers for a loop by showcasing the softer side of male personal ads. Personal ads that force upon you the cruelest irony of sexual attraction. When WWHM finally features an ad that nary mentions balls, the first question on many women's minds is “Jesus Christ, where are his fucking balls?” That collective yawn you just heard was 18 million vaginas tuning in to "The Hills."

His balls have recessed into his body cavity, making a delicious and deep-toned slurping sound as they did so. And when a man loses his balls he becomes a pussy, so with Jason you will have effectively have two pussies. One pussy to carry in your pants for solo pole-gnawing orgasms, and the other pussy to carry your purse, who, if he's lucky, may provide an occasional halfgasm that causes you to squeak briefly in the same manner a trained dolphin might beg for a beachball.

Women enjoy surrendering to rabid animal attraction, but that animal is rarely going to be a bunny with floppy ears. A bear, a lion, perhaps even a mild-mannered rock ape if there's a couple of large beers involved. My point is Jason has emasculated himself beyond the point of redemption for most women. Snuggling is great, but not when he wakes you up in the middle of the night to say one or more of the following:

“I'm so excited for the parade tomorrow I can barely sleep!”

“Who doesn't get excited by the springtime aroma of freshly dried bath towels?”

“Boy I love the way these cotton sock garters hold both my socks equidistant from my kneecaps.”

WWHM realizes we will catch some flak for posting this ad, but many readers forget that WWHM is written by man, and a man sometimes has to call it as he sees it. And this man sees another man who lanced his fucking testicles to find a woman who in the long run will demand he produce exactly that which he lanced to find her. A man who irons his jeans and weeps during life insurance commercials. A man who giggles eating pudding and sits when he pees.

I think my sister put it best.

"My pussy has so much gravitational pull I can suck Orson Welles out of a pool drain," she said. "But if that pansy motherfucker put his hand anywhere near my panties he'd have to consult a pirate how to put a rubber pussy on a hook."

Well said, sis. Well said.

I put it into the hands of WWHM readers. Would you respond to this ad?

(Ed: For inquiring minds, that is the picture he posted with the ad. Weasel says: SOFT!)

WWHM Program Note

2009-01-04T00:11:00.000-08:00

WWHM readers such as this guy may have noticed I haven't been posting as frequently since the Christmas break. I recently landed my first paid writing gig, and along with my co-worker here, I have to keep up my side job of plastics stress testing as well. It's going to be taking up a lot of my time over the next couple of months.

I will continue to post as often as possible, but the time constraints and deadlines of my new job must now take precedence over WWHM. But don't worry, posts will continue to go up! And remember, you can always subscribe to WWHM at the bottom of the page. You guys have been the greatest fans in the world and I hope you stick with me.

-The Weasel

Test Drive

2009-01-03T12:55:00.000-08:00

Just trying VigRX - Need a test run before use on girlfriend

Just a shot in the dark here, but I've been trying out VigRX for a little while now, and I do notice that I'm getting harder and longer lasting erections (while in self-satisfying mode). It's supposed to be a penis enlargement pill, but apparently it has viagra like qualities as well. I do feel a lot harder. Before, I couldn't keep it up for very long with my girlfriend, but now I think that it might be helping.

Was wondering if any ladies out there would like to help me give it a test run before I try it on my girlfriend. She won't be back for a week so I just want to make sure. Steven XXX-XXX-XXXX

Ahhhh yes, just another day at WWHM, and just another man scribing an ad to attract a woman by first admitting he takes penis enlargement pills, then admitting he suffers from premature ejaculation, then revealing he has problems maintaining an erection, and finally, acknowledging he already has a girlfriend. Who says romance is dead? As far as I can fucking tell, if a duck took a wade into the vast depths that is the current male dating pool, he'd emerge with unsplashed kneecaps.

But thankfully Steven is a mime, so at least he can still simulate having sex with no one. But impotent at 29? At 29, I could get my dick hard watching one of the Golden Girls have a stroke.

The general problem with the lot of male personal ads these days is that women tend to think of the penis as an appendage to the man, while most men write their personal ads as though they were the appendage to the penis. “Look at this amazing penis!” their ads bellow, “have you ever seen such a glorious organ?” But she's looking at the background of the photo, where a mangy dog is eating a seagull in the living room, there's a dinner plate on a milk crate, and the bed showcases what appears to be a rubber vagina consuming a carrot. She could care less about your penis; she's essentially fucking an apartment with all the welcoming conviviality and charm of a mid-winter downtown Detroit Greyhound bus depot during a NAMBLA convention.

Yet guys like Steven, who constructed an entire personal ad dedicated to the minute ministrations and daily struggles of his genitals, exacerbate the problem by attributing their failures with women to- what else?- a small penis. Men are putting the cart before the horse; no women are going to know you have a small penis if they don't give a shit about it in the first place. Yet Steven spends $932.99 on herbal penis enlargement pills (I checked; comes with a free exercise video!) in hopes of making himself more attractive to women. Believe me, if herbs and spices made your dick bigger, I'd beleaguer my genitals with chipotle Underoos until my penis resembled a family-sized can of beef broth.

Here's the facts: 95% of men have an erect penis that measures between 5.3 and 6.1 inches. 95% of women have a vaginal depth between 3.8 to 4.6 inches. In a nutshell, most of us are going to fit together pretty well. Even if you're a little shorter than average it's not like you're heaving a cocktail frank into the Grand Canyon, and she'll be thankful you're not beating her damn cervix like a catcher's mitt.

Guys need to hear it from the source. Do you ever want to see or hear about a guy's dick before you've even met him? Does size matter? Feel free to post anonymously.

This "show-and-tell about your dick" in a personal ad business has reached a breaking point here at WWHM.

Have At Him Ladies

2009-01-01T08:51:00.000-08:00

As posted by Anastasia in the comments, and way too good for WWHM to pass up. Thanks Anastasia!

http://www.louisvillefreeface.com/index.htm

Courtesy of Something Awful.

"We can consider my admiring your naked body to be my payment for services rendered."

Fake Assholes Finish Last

2008-12-29T09:08:00.000-08:00

How long has it been since some1 has done somethin 4 your imagination?

I'm a selfish prick. A hot, well known, pampered intellectual with a big dick and a marathon tongue. I'm young enough to do it often and old enough to do it right. I don't have time for petty drama or emotional hysterics. I do what I want, when I want.

Only contact me if you have the following qualities...

-a good imagination
-intuition
-intelligence
-good instincts

I'm picky and deserve to be. There is nothing wrong with having standards. I place very little emphasis on what people think of me. I don't care. I am exactly who I want to be. I will tell you exactly what I want to tell you, when I want to say it. Contact me and tell me how you feel about rollercoasters. Paul

Ladies and gentlemen, I am a man of meager means.

Born with the ass of an elderly pilgrim woman, my buttocks continue to resonate with all the juicy sparkle and playful charisma of a post-bulimic beach clam. I have been told I possess all the vibrant personality of dried wall spackle, and my penis resembles something a weight-conscious hummingbird might classify as a whimsical yet breezy snack item.

Of mice and men, I am the mouse, frequently squeaking for a tiny scrap of female cheese. I am the guy you see getting donkey-punched by a Girl Scout in broad daylight, crying out for my mother and curling into the fetal position around my Miley Cyrus lunchpail. I am the man that leaks sixteen different fluids at the hiss of a white kitten adorned with daisies, and a man who hasn't seen pussy in so long I'd probably try to catch it with a folded newspaper and release it into the forest.

So who am I to judge personal ads you ask? I may resemble a loose amalgamation of wind-blown maypole ribbons when I skip down the street like a retarded flamingo on ecstasy, but I am indeed a wise man. A man wise enough to know I shouldn't ever try to pretend I'm someone I'm not, because I'd rather continue to be wise than begin to look stupid.

Which brings us to Paul's personal ad. How'd you feel about it after you first read it? Does it look familiar? It's supposed to hit women in the face like a frying pan, but in a good way. You've seen it before here on WWHM, and I've previously sourced it to this guy (on the left column). These fucking ads are all over the internet, all starting with a variation of "I'm a selfish prick."

It was specifically designed by world-reknowned “pick-up” artists to arouse a woman's sub-conscious and innate attraction towards a dominant man, and it's supposed to be the most successful online personal ad available. Let's break it down by sections and see how it works in theory:

How long has it been since someone has done something for your imagination?
This is designed to open your mind for the ad you're about to read.

I'm a selfish prick. A hot, well known, pampered intellectual with a big dick and a marathon tongue. I'm young enough to do it often, and old enough to do it right.
Shows dominance, leadership and sexual vitality / prowess.

I don't have time for petty drama or emotional hysterics. I do what I want, when I want.
Dominance.

Only contact me if you have the following qualities: (dominance)

A good imagination, intuition, intelligence and good instincts.
This is the same verbal trickery psychics use. Everyone thinks “Oh, that describes me!”, but it actually applies to anyone that reads it. It excludes no one. Except people smart enough to realize they're being had.

I'm picky and deserve to be. There is nothing wrong with having standards. I place very little emphasis on what people think of me. I don't care. I am exactly who I want to be. I will tell you exactly what I want to tell you, when I want to say it.
Dominance and leadership.

Contact me and tell me how you feel about rollercoasters.
In order to write about rollercoasters, you need to think about riding a rollercoaster. When you think about riding a rollercoaster, you tend to get an adrenaline rush and a feeling of exhilaration. Since you are writing to him, you will sub-consciously associate and apply those feelings to him. So in theory, you will see him as an exciting, exhilarating person. In theory.

Great job Paul! So let's rehash:

You're an unimaginative prick. You're neither hot, intellectual, nor well-known, but perhaps you might wear Pampers. Your cock resembles an apple stem, and your “marathon tongue” couldn't wheeze it's way across a fucking Topeka airport gate. But like a marathon, it's probably runny.

You “don't care what people think of you”, yet you're too much of a coward to admit who you really are, and you're “exactly who you want to be,” which apparently is someone else other than yourself. Next time women need a morning-after pill, I'm going to send them your personal ad. You make female ovaries seal up like a submarine hatch.

Now get over here and install my garage door opener. You're two hours late, you pampered intellectual.

WWHM readers, if you come across any more of these cheesy ads, respond to them stating you know it's a "form personal" and then send me the ad and the response.

Enjoy this entry while it's posted, because I'm aware that the author (to whom I applied the fake name "Paul") knows about WWHM and will probably find his ad. If he instructs me to take it down I have to per WWHM rules. But I will post his email requesting I take it down.

Happy New Years WWHM'ers and welcome back!

(Ed note: Though I despise the now-patheticly overdone "pick-up artist" community and their increasingly worn-out, market-saturated methodologies, I strongly recommend Neil Strauss' book "The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists." Yes, he's a leader of the PUA community, but he's also an incredible writer, and the book provides a fascinating look at how men try to beat women at their own game. And how they succeed without you ever knowing what hit you. You'll learn something about yourself, male or female.)

Reader Mailbag!

2008-12-16T20:55:00.000-08:00

Reader SC recently wrote to WWHM to share something odd that occurred while trying her hand at the online dating world.

You see, SC is an exceptionally brilliant and driven woman. So much so that she has earned her PhD, and, like most people would, she briefly mentioned in her personal ad that she had earned a PhD.

Who wouldn't? Hell, if I had passed the third grade or had the ability to change my own pants, I'd probably include that in my own personal ad. Anyway, SC didn't require respondents to have their own PhD, didn't mention what line of work they should be in, she simply mentioned it in passing.

Now surely most men would be secure enough with themselves to view SC's accomplishment with high regard, wouldn't they? Let's look at the response she received from a gentleman:

You should not state that you have a PhD on your profile. This could intimidate men. And if you choose to keep it on your profile, you may otherwise attract pretentious, egomaniacs who can quote you every line from Shakespeare.

Admitting that you have a PhD is not wise when searching for love. In fact, you shouldn't even mention it unless they ask. Such admission can steer good men away from you; believing that they may never be able to relate to you intellectually. When searching for love, one needs to be open minded. Be completely receptive.

Let's look at that last line again, shall we? Just for shits and fucking giggles.

When searching for love, one needs to be open minded. Be completely receptive.

I guess we don't need to ask him if he has a PhD, do we? Unless of course he has a PhD in the formulation of contradictory statements. Now, not to let a snivelling little insecure pansy-boy get a free slap at her, SC wrote back an appropriate response:

I don't want to date someone who barely made it out of high school, and I definitely wouldn't want someone in my life who didn't support or encourage me in my career.

Also, something for you to consider, you should probably not tell women what to do with their profiles. This pisses women off. Women do not like men who tell them what to do. The idea that a woman has to lie about who she is to attract a man is incredibly insulting, and the only kind of woman who would go for that would be a doormat, and I am not that kind of woman.

Touche! Next serve? Back to the idiot:

I though emotional love was primary to you--second to intellectual love. I'm sorry. I wasn't telling you what to do with your profile. (Ed note: Um, yeah that's exactly you did.) I simply gave my suggestion. I thought this was something you would understand since you're a professor; with a PhD that is. After all, a PhD means, Doctor of Philosophy.

If my constructive criticism comes off as "insulting" or "pisses you off", then I fear you may have to sit down a bit and find out why you've acquired this degree. Is your PhD degree a display or do you really know its meanings and purposes? Is it something you went to school for because you believe it would impress people or do you truly wish to put it into practice?

The number of academic degrees one possesses is irrelevant when it comes to finding a mate. You're a young professor so keep your mind open. You may become wise. I can tell by your response that your mind is not fully opened as need to be as a professor. It will happen.

Wow, he serves a heaping of condescension with his small, atrophied penis. Final serve back to SC:

You have no idea what you're talking about.

Well said SC, well said.

Any other off-site dating exchanges you'd like to share, feel free to send them in to WWHM for public mockery! And thanks SC!

Radiogasm

2008-12-10T23:06:00.000-08:00

I Know How To Make You Cum. Even If You Haven't Before.

And I know how to do it too. I got some pointers listening to some woman on a talk radio show. Listeners called in. They asked questions and she gave good advice. I listened and took good notes. Now I know how to make women squirt. I can get you there even if you've never been able to experience your "Big-O" in the past. I'm available to host or travel. David XXX-XXX-XXXX

In his 1967 groundbreaking scientific thesis The Naked Ape, evolutionary biologist Desmond Morris theorized that the relative difficulty women have achieving orgasm is based upon modern Darwinian constructs, in that the “orgasm reward” is granted more frequently to females who select and tightly bond with males who exhibit qualities such as patience, understanding, imagination and intelligence. In other words, guys who give enough of a rat's ass about her to learn exactly how to make her head pop off like a fucking steam kettle.

Then we have guys like David who waste their time absorbing the empty ministrations of radio snake oil salesmen, who guarantee universal orgasms the same way they guarantee miracle-cure hair tonics and complicated stain removers. “Buy it and you'll see!” they promise, carefully placing one foot out the door in the general direction of an idling getaway vehicle.

“I got some good pointers listening to some woman on a radio talk show,” David states, as if he had been seeking advice on milling his own flour or barbequeing a free-range turkey, “and now I know how to make a woman squirt!” If it were only that easy David. I know women that have slept with over 100 men and never once reached climax, but have earth-shattering orgasms every time they ride a rusty bicycle down a brick sidewalk. But what does David say when he can't make you cum? "Oh, I guess your vagina must be broken."

Where a penis is simple math, the vagina is advanced theoretical calculus. If a woman boasted to her friends that she finally figured out a way to make her boyfriend cum, they'd look at her like she'd spent the previous three hours drinking concentrated house paint. Because while making a man cum is easier than mastering an introductory toast recipe, making a woman cum can involve a number of variables, each of which you need to master to get her off according to her own sexual needs.

So men, stop making your fucking worthless blanket statements about your ability to get women off like you're some kind of seasoned conductor for the Universal Vaginal Orchestra. Your forecasts fall flatter than fucking blizzard warnings in Honolulu, and you only perpetuate the human need for the yawning mechanism. Women know two things: If you say you're hung like a horse, that means your cock resembles the soggy tongue of a teenage bay clam. And if you promise her an orgasm, she knows she needs to start stretching out her wrists for a long night of finger exercises.

If a woman orders a pizza, she wants the delivery boy to show up with a pizza. You're like a delivery boy that shows up with nothing but good-natured conversation and excuses for why you don't have a pizza.

American Gigolo II

2008-12-08T22:57:00.000-08:00

BARELY LEGAL 18 YEAR OLD(INCALL/OUTCALL)

TIRED OF OLD MEN NOT PLEASING YOU ENOUGH? WANT A YOUNG, BARELY LEGAL 18 YR OLD TO SHOW YOU A GREAT TIME? THEN THIS IS THE PLACE TO BE ;) ITS A LITTLE UNDER 8 INCHES LONG, VERY PLEASURABLE ;)I WILL DO ANYTHING YOUR MIND DESIRES, ONLY 75 HH, 100 PER HR, DIRT CHEAPPP! I DO INCALLS AT MY PLACE, FROM 6 AM TO 230 PM MONDAY THRU FRIDAY, I CAN DO OUTCALLS AT MOSTLY ANYTIME BUT YOU HAVE TO PICK ME UP EMAIL TIM AT xxxxxxx @ xxxxx.xxx

Women's fantasies have always perplexed me.

My ex-girlfriend recently introduced me to her favorite porn site titled “Erotic Stories for Women.” A typical male, I immediately scanned the titles for the nastiest sounding material, hoping to find something like “An Insatiable Throat” or “Whore Picnic at Anal Mountain” to tickle my male fancy. And perhaps my taint.

But no, this was women's porn, and most titles offered the same levels of depravity one might find at a suburban Memphis cat show. “A Midshipman's Summer” or “The Covenant of Nicole” promised little in the way of cum-drenched shenanigans, and “The Gentle Pillow” spent the first three pages detailing the playful gyrations of a forest logger's buttocks as he contemplated sparing a nest of abandoned eaglets. If this was dirty porn, the editor was a maid.

So when eighteen year-old Tim recently placed a personal ad offering his fantasy services to women for $100 an hour, I was admittedly a little perplexed. Air, water, and hard 18 year-old dicks are the most plentiful resources on our planet, and even our ever-resourceful gas stations have yet to figure out a way to charge a convenience fee for steely hard teenage cock.

I tapped a recent Askmen.com / iVillage.com survey of the top 3 women's fantasies to find out if maybe Chris was on to something. Women listed the following as their Top 3 fantasies:

#3 Abducted by a stranger for a night of hot, passionate, anonymous sex.

Tim's physique suggests he'd have a hard time abducting a de-clawed housecat from a freshly waxed marble floor. Slight of build and tattoo-free, Tim hardly resembles the hard-scrabble ex-cons many women favor for this fantasy. And most women conceded that being abducted by a greeting card store cashier on a 3-speed Schwinn bicycle and riding in the delivery basket to his parents house was just a wee bit of a stretch.

#2 Owning a man as a sex slave

It's hard to enslave a man who ejaculates when you take off your bra. And an 18 year-old man couldn't find his way around a vagina with GoogleMaps and a plastic Dallas Cowboys compass extracted from a box of Lucky Charms, so it's often difficult to instruct a man who has no idea what he's doing. Ask him to warm up your vulva, and he runs out to the garage to start your car. Tell him to moisten the hood, and he spits on his Michigan State sweatshirt.

#1 Mrs. Robinson / Shy, young virgin fantasy

Jackpot. All you insatiable, horny cougars just want an innocent young man to wear an undercooked bacon suit to your little wolverine party. To sip the nectar of youth from the shy, whimpering prisoner of his own innocence. You women disgust me, you're like .......... men with tits.

OK, I see your point, Tim. But charging $100 for your sexual services seems a little ridiculous when all a woman has to do is open her door and throw a rock to find an 18 year-old willing to fuck the eggs out of her. Do cocks grow on trees? They may as well.

A woman can hire a comedian in your area for $100, and you provide twice the laughs. Do the math.

For a list of the Top 10 female fantasies, click here. I read up on you guys for this, and your fantasies are dirty and extraordinarily whorish. I commend you with all my heart. But you should all go wash your hands right now and memorize Bible verses.

Fear!

2008-12-07T09:10:00.000-08:00

how do i turn a woman on?
hey im 23 years old. i lost my virginity a couple year ago but i paid for it so i don't know how well i can get a woman turned on now because i don't have much experience. im obsesive compulsive so id rather just do the sex part because i dont know fourplay and im not very big but just a little under average. so i am scared sometime hard to perform. im not very experienced but I know part a goes into part b but I know woman like fourplay so what do I do? brett

Over the course of my many years genitally tangling with the female species, I've learned there are two things women never want men to bring into the bedroom; sexual insecurities or Scottish bagpipes.

Brett has sexual insecurities in spades, and he carries them around in a suitcase shaped like an eternally flaccid penis. The only way for truly inexperienced men like Brett to overcome these primary fears is to stop treating a vagina like it's just something you read about in a museum flier. Rather, a vagina is something you must pursue and embrace with open arms and open mouth. When a woman takes off her pants, she's offering you something special, not releasing an angry raccoon.

"But why fear our pussies?" women might ask, laughing uncontrollably as they hold their vaginas high above our outstretched hands, causing us to jump repeatedly until our bones break and we crumple to the ground in a sobbing, heaving mass of sperm cells with unrealized goals and dreams.

Men fear pussies because they control us. Our entire existence is solely dedicated to acquiring as much of them as possible. If we were squirrels, tree stumps would splinter violently at the sheer volume of stored vagina. Every thought we make, every action and reaction we choose to partake in, and every dollar we spend can be traced back to our desire to get into your pants. News flash: I didn't spend 5 months writing WWHM for the firm handshakes.

Most men tackle fallopaphobia at an early age; her name is always Susie, her dad is always unemployed, and there is always malnourished livestock feeding on Meisterbrau cans in her backyard. This oft-inbred strumpet invites us to a secluded area, lifts her skirt, and tells us to pet her like we might comfort an odd-looking goat at the touch-me zoo. Once we're fascinated with the vagina, all we want to do is roll around in the goddamn things like fucking catnip. Fear quashed. And don't name your daughter Susie.

But some guys like Brett don't get these opportunities, and we end up with sexually stunted men who describe sex as inserting "part A into part b, " as if IKEA sold cut-rate vaginas at your local outlet mall. Obsessive compulsive, he cannot maintain an erection during intercourse because every five minutes a little voice tells him the oven is on. And socially stunted, he writes personal ads detailing his dalliances with prostitutes whilst simultaneously asking for someone to provide him a free sample of something he usually pays for.

Because he has fear.

Fear!

WWHM Presents: The Most Unintentionally Hilarious Commercial In TV History

2008-12-07T09:00:00.000-08:00

This is an actual commercial for an actual product produced back in the 80's.

Turn the sound down and enjoy the wonderful reactions of the kids as they ooze each other.

Hmmmm, those facial expressions look eerily familiar.

Metaphorically Speaking

2008-12-02T17:32:00.000-08:00

Whose dick is this?!!?!? ; } Oh its my D-I-C-K.

I'm on the right blowing the bubble. My thick cucumber is dripping with bumpy anticipation for your response. I can pump my man-juice multiple times in a variety of your holes simultaneously. If you are going to e-mail me make sure to send a picture. Mark easyxxxx @ xxxxx.com (XXX-XXX-XXXX)

One of the most painful and ineffective schticks men employ in personal ads is the poorly resourced genital metaphor. A sales pitch gone horribly awry, men think disguising the penis under the auspices of some randomly generated cylindrical object may somehow automatically increase it's lackluster appeal. Penis? No thanks. Trouser snake? Color me horny! You'd think women of the world ran around masturbating with soup cans, skin flutes and one-eyed unicorns.

Genital metaphors falter because women process text visually. Today's idiot Mark tenderly describes his genitals as “a thick, bumpy and dripping cucumber that can pump man-juice multiple times.” While Mark utilizes these metaphors to portray himself as a horny, well-endowed and fertile male, women tend to visualize a piece of rotting squash getting run over by a bus, or perhaps a gaggle of crows quarreling over a greasy hotdog under a van. Not exactly a literary juicer for the ladies Mark. You'd find more lubrication jerking-off with a handful of corn chips.

For men to truly understand the tragedy of using genital metaphors in a personal ad, they need to ask themselves how they'd respond to the following female ad utilizing the same strategy:

35 year-old beautiful and professional woman seeks tall, educated male for sailing adventures, dining in the park, and concerts in the fall. I enjoy coffee, classical music, and roasting the cocks penetrating the elastic snaphole of my sweaty breadbox.

Metaphorically or not, asking a strange woman to get excited about your penis in a personal ad is like asking a woman to get excited about an old turkey neck stuffed with acorns. A mutant and desperate gland appearing to forever yearn to sip from some unknown pool of water beneath it, women generally abhor the sight and thought of a penis unless they're specifically ready to take one on. It's no coincidence that vibrators and sparkly blue dildos sell like hotcakes, while giant rubber penises collect dust in the porn store bargain bin like a forgotten cart of shark bait.

Mark, if your cucumber keeps dripping in anticipation of a response, I suggest you take your ass down to Wal-Mart and buy yourself a spot mop.

You have a long wait.

We've done this for vaginas (God I hate that word), but any other names or metaphors you ladies use for your husbands or boyfriends dicks you can put in the comments. And if anyone puts "thingy", you're banished from WWHM forever.

This list oughtta be fucking cringeworthy for guys.

WWHM Presents: Christmas Gift Ideas

2008-11-30T17:34:00.000-08:00

(Attn. WWHM readers: This is entirely real. I wish I could tell you otherwise.)

Natural Harvest: A Collection of Semen-Based Recipes by Paul Photenhauer

If you thought finding a fly in your soup was bad, imagine a waiter unzipping his fly just above your soup to complete the dish.

“Excuse me miss,” the waiter might inquire, “but it really might help me if you briefly address me as your “dirty whore of a waiter."

Paul Photenhauer offers us his unique perspective on dietary protein enrichment in his new book Natural Harvest: A Collection of Semen-Based Recipes. “Like fine wines and cheeses," he says, "the taste of semen is complex and dynamic.” Perhaps one might describe semen this way when surrounded by fine linens and a string quartet, but most women are more familiar with the type of semen ingested in the back seat of a '84 Jetta. Bleachy and acidic, it tastes more like something they might use to buff an aluminum kettle.

Mr. Photenhauer argues that semen is simply an acquired taste. "Some tend to dismiss semen as food and describe it as bitter or salty. This is similar to a person who tastes wine for the first time and says it tastes sour." Oh whatever, you big uppity cum snob. Last time I checked, women dismissed semen as a food source because it shot piping hot out of a penis and smelled like something you'd find on your shoe after a 7 hour aquarium tour. A topping for flan? It's supposed to evolve into an infant. Do you sprinkle babies on your lasagne?

Most recipes call for fresh semen, but some recipes such as the Creamy Cum Crepes require copious amounts of ejaculate to attain that finely nuanced jizz flavor we all appreciate from childhood. Since the taste quickly deteriorates, Mr. Photenhauer suggests freezing several days worth of semen in the refrigerator. WWHM concurs, but suggests you store them opposite the ice cubes. There's nothing worse than catching your grandmother sipping a Crown on the rocks only to proclaim "This tastes like my goddamn honeymoon."

Natural Harvest contains 60 full pages of semen recipes, most of which are stuck together like the pages of a 1984 Penthouse at an all-boys summer church camp. The straight edition comes with a centerfold of Rachel Ray nude, and the gay edition comes with a centerfold featuring a beautiful sectional couch surrounded by several lovely New Hampshire antiques. And Rachel Ray nude.

While the website boasts the book measures 9" by 7", it arrived measuring only 5" by 3". The postman apologized and said "it was really, really cold outside."

If you'd like to see the actual book and read some hilarious commentary, please visit here.

If you'd like to peruse the first 20 pages, including recipes and a lovely photograph of spermed oysters, please click here.

Please link to the National Harvest Cookbook through WWHM to help spread the word, and we'll be back tomorrow to present you with more pathetic WWHM personal ads!

Brilliant Idiocy

2008-11-26T03:08:00.000-08:00

I am looking for a woman for me

OK, first off
• No baggage!!,-- that includes any kids, ex-boyfriends, or clingy, jealous girlfriends
• No history of substance abuse, drugs and alcohol -- Addicts and "recovering addicts" need not reply
• Vegans -- may God bless you, but I am not interested in dating picky eaters
• To those who self-identify as "Christian", I can read the Old Testament in the original Aramaic and the New Testament in the original Koine Greek. I myself am Manichean and a member of a Gnostic group.

Here is a list of the characteristics I am searching for in a woman
• must know one European language other than English, Spanish, and Portuguese
• minimum educational level is a Masters degree or, at least, currently working towards earning a MA, MPhil, PhD, or DPhil
• Maybeck or Wright?
• I only dance to World Beat music e.g. Persian techno, House music from Turkey, sufi ragas from Afghanistan, latest pop from Cameroon.
• There is a difference between Jackie Collins and Wilkie Collins. If you do not know who the latter is, then find another personal ad.
-Do you know the difference between Keynesianism and Friedman's model?
• Alexander Hamilton or Thomas Jefferson?
• Concerning sex: read Reich's The Function of the Orgasm

work/career
I am working towards a PhD.

Thank you for reading. Have a pleasant day. Philipe

Ladies and gentleman, meet Philipe, the number one reason people scatter at social gatherings. It's like watching a wasp invade a picnic, only he threatens you with the painful sting of excruciating conversation.

Know-it-all Philipe (pronounced insufferable-bore) has placed a personal ad specifically seeking a non-vegan Manichean French-speaking Wilkie Collins fanatic with a PhD in Afghani history. In addition, your vagina must smell like fresh Algonquian tree sap.

While many men feel women adopt impossible-to-meet standards for their dating candidates, Philipe has effectively trumped women by listing a set of ridiculous standards that are not only stringent, but have absolutley nothing to do with a relationship whatsoever. It's like selecting a car based on the mating habits of Brazilian tree sloths. What's the difference between Keynesianism and Friedman's model of economics? The difference is you're never getting a blowjob.

Women generally find wildly intelligent men very attractive, but when intelligence overshadows any sense of humility, you've officially crossed into the territory of the pompous, arrogant ass. Philipe crossed into that territory, and subsequently bored the inhabitants with World Music until they stabbed themselves. “There is a difference between Jackie Collins and Wilkie Collins. If you do not know who the latter is, then find another personal ad.” And he wonders why his penis smells like an unearthed mummy.

Philipe holds the weighty erotic appeal of an impotent meerkat with chronic back acne. His ad invokes Wilhelm Reich's The Function of the Orgasm to tantalize you with what forthcometh sexually. Let me describe the manual via Amazon: “An exploration of sexuality relating to the importance of human life and it's relevance in understanding the social problems of our time.” If you want to get yourself really juicy, you can read that and a bus schedule.

Translate that riveting manuscript into the bedroom, and you have all the sexual electricity of an undercooked ham. Him, the superior being, fucking you, the inferior dolt. He ejaculates, and then burns your People magazines.

One thing you certainly won't have to worry about with Philipe?

Clingy women.

The Vagina Whisperer

2008-11-23T17:46:00.000-08:00

Do you own a stubborn, shy, finicky or easily spooked vagina?

I am The Vagina Whisperer, a vagina virtuoso with over twenty years under my belt of coaxing deep, fulfilling orgasms out of perturbed, unfulfilled and inexperienced vaginas. A skilled artisan, I have soothed angst ridden vaginas, and coaxed into deep, florid orgasm some of the most determined and obstinate vaginas that ever graced the earth.

Bring me your weary, mishandled or neglected vagina. Permit me to nurse coddle and cajole it back into its original form and glory. Don't you miss the days when your vagina had repeated daily use? Remember when it was toned, and moist and ready to ride at a moment's notice? Vaginas are mankind's greatest treasure. Don't let yours go to waste! TomE

A “horse whisperer” utilizes various methods of modern equine psychology to train and rehabilitate disturbed horses. Tom "The Vagina Whisperer" meekly attempts to correlate this horse-healing ideology to women, not realizing that a vagina isn't going to dance around like a little circus monkey for a sugar cube. Believe me Tom, if it only took sugar to open a woman's legs I'd bathe myself in waffle syrup and dress in a nougat suit.

Horses and vaginas are completely different creatures Tom, so don't compare the two. One is an animal in and of itself; it has its own feelings, moods and desires. Although sometimes it relishes human interaction and affection and enjoys getting saddled up for a great ride, we must remember at heart it's just a wild animal. The other one lives in a barn.

Tom takes the worst possible approach to attract a woman; he treats your vagina as though it were some sort of troubled autonomous nation-state with a self-esteem problem. The vagina isn't the problem Tom; the problem is the endless line of impotent, inexperienced assclowns that think spending 10 minutes with a thesaurus and some nifty word trickery will get them a day pass into the Ovarian Institute. Pussy is an exclusive Hollywood nightclub Tom, and you're Bill Gates in a Thriller t-shirt and a Member's Only jacket standing outside the velvet ropes with a bag of glowsticks and a hula hoop wishing you knew what it felt like to be inside.

Your ridiculous personal ad instantly and completely negates your claim that you have nearly twenty years experience resurrecting neglected and weary vaginas, because in just two paragraphs you managed to bore 10,000 vaginas to death. You might think your ad is clever, but I haven't seen this many collective vaginas yawn since erectile dysfunction became hip.

WWHM readers frequently note the strong correlation between the illiteracy of a person posting a personal ad and the stupidity of the content of the ad. Tom completely destroys this theory in that not only is his personal ad the most literate ad we've ever posted on WWHM, but it simultaneously qualifies as one of the stupidest personal ads we've ever run. It's almost as if all the stupid in his head miraculously drained into his balls right before he put feather to parchment.

But as all women know, if balls were IQ points, then ......... well I think that joke just kind of finishes itself, doesn't it?

Near Miss

2008-11-23T05:30:00.000-08:00

You almost missed out on the best man ever

All my life I have been dating beautiful women, meaningful relationships mind you. I know I am a great man, I know this, but obviously you don't, and that's a shame. There is not another man out there in his 20's that would treat you better, treat you with more respect, or satisfy you better. So, this is my final good bye. Good bye meaningless online advertisements. Goodbye women that have blown me off, when in all reality, yeah, I was giving you a chance. I would have been your last, first kiss. A kiss that holds so much passion that you cannot hold your emotions. A kiss so authentic, you will not understand, because you are used to so much less. A kiss so heart felt, that your feet will tingle. Too bad, it could have been life altering. Too bad

It's like watching a sad, desperate birthday clown threatening to leave a children's party because none of the kids like the bowl of steamed brussel sprouts he contributed.

Honesty in Personal Ads

2008-11-21T18:36:00.000-08:00

How To Fuck Up a Wedding

2008-11-21T18:30:00.000-08:00

Women love weddings- you're witnessing the ultimate expression of committed love, the heartfelt promises two people make for the future, and the limitless opportunites of growth and happiness the bride and groom can explore after exchanging vows.

Men love weddings too. Beer is free, you can bang the bridesmaids whose loins are quivering like a bunch of hairless cats in Fairbanks, and it's perfectly acceptable to pass out in a patch of church shrubs with a ham sandwich on your face and a gallon of ranch dressing in your tux shirt. Just another day in paradise.

When weddings go wrong though, 95% of the time it's the drunk guys fault.

The Porn Mag Trade

2008-11-20T22:40:00.000-08:00

39m do you like pornography?

I'm a guy that really likes to mastrbate to porn mags. I'm jerking off allthe time and am seeking a woman to masterbate with. Do women like to masterbate with porn mags as much as I do? Do you like porn? If you do we should have a jackathon. lol.No sex required but apreicated . Be dirty because I am.Please call Jason @ XXX-XXX-XXXX

Today's award-winning erotic wordsmith Jason wonders whether women utilize pornography during masturbation. The answer is yes, although recent studies have shown that, unlike Jason, women are significantly less likely to masturbate into the open end of a soiled gym sock when doing so.

Men are visual creatures, and our pornographic magazines generally reflect our visual appreciation of the culturally idealized female form. More specifically, they tend to reflect our visual appreciation of the form women might take had two horses been tied to their big toes and frightened in opposite directions. The photos of female genitals and breasts are often accentuated and exaggerated, and sometimes blown up to such a degree that men are unaware whether they are masturbating to a photo of a vagina or the gills of a shark.

Women rely much less on visual stimulation than men to become sexually aroused, which is a relief, as most flaccid penises resemble a tired senior citizen burdened with a heavy sack of cantaloupes.

Rather, women tend to become aroused by a multitude of stimuli simultaneously during masturbation. Very lucky researchers on the topic determined that sensory reactions to sight, sounds, touch, and smell can combine with intense erotic visualizations to propel a female into a frenzied masturbatory state that enables her to experience multiple mind-blowing orgasms. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go have a cigarette. And grab a female-masturbation-researcher job application.

To find women's pornography, one need look no further than the abundance of romantic literature and erotic books and websites available to American women. Where most men visualize a bunch of boring stories about silly shirtless men in capes that ride around the Scottish countryside on horses saying ridiculous things like "I must reunite with Katherine before she marries Marquarht," women see these stories as an opportunity to manifest fantasies that allow them to treat their vaginas like a misbehaving stepchild at a country picnic.

Unfortunately Jason, while research shows that erotic literature and the written word can have an extremely powerful psychological and aphrodisiacal effect on women, men have difficulty masturbating to erotic stories. Men tend to process words, women tend to visualize them.

Which I found out the hard way yesterday when I spent six hours as a straight man trying to masturbate to a brief passage describing the smell of a man's shoulder.

All You Single Ladies........

2008-11-20T17:30:00.000-08:00

I hope you single ladies have fresh batteries at home.

You'll need them after this.

Best Oral Sex #3,345,717

2008-11-20T02:50:00.000-08:00

Best oral in Las Vegas! -19
Hello ladiez of Las Vegas. Let me introduse myself my name is Kent from summerlin area of Las Vegas. Would you like a night of intense oral plesure? Becase thats what i'm here for just your oral pleasure.Not like most guyz I know where your clit is and will focus on it for hourz strait to totally get you off. I am young and full of cum, redy to lick your clit and gspot, clean only, i will keep you interested. no smelly ugly girls. Kent XXX-XXX-XXXX

WWHM would seriously like to know who's handing out all these oral awards we see in personal ads. "I'm the best in the Mid-Valley!" "Best in Manhattan!" and "Best oral ever!" More importantly, we want to know who is judging all these competitions. With that much stimulation, her pussy must look like a giant bee sting.

Today we meet Kent, a 19 year-old man so confident in his oral abilities that he promises to "keep you interested." Way to set a low bar for yourself, Kent. That's like paying $1000 to a call girl who promises to keep you "semi-hard."

Rustling leaves outside a window can keep a woman "interested" Kent, but to keep her interested in the bedroom you need to look for more subtle signs. If she moans lightly or shifts her hips, that's a good sign you've garnered her interest. Conversely, if she starts vacuuming the foyer while you're going down on her, you may want to sharpen your technique.

Kent plans to "totally get you off" by spending hours focusing directly on your clitoris. Which is kind of like offering a woman a complete home makeover, then just painting the chimney. Think of it like a mosquito bite- it feels really good if someone scratches on it or around it for a little bit, but if you scratch it directly on it for hours on end, someone's going to end up with a fucking 2 X 4 right in the throat.

Perhaps as a testament to the preparation he's putting in to your encounter, Kent has also included a crudely drawn diagram of a vagina inscribed with the words "lick here." I'm not saying it's a cheat sheet, but if he starts peeking at his palms while he goes down on you, feel free whack him in the head with a ruler. A picture may be worth 1,000 words Kent, but in your personal ad a picture is worth two: No thanks.

Words say a mouthful, and the words in your personal ad quiver as they say "Oh God, I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing here." Believe me, there's a difference between performing cunnilingus on a woman and eating a bowl of Grape Nuts between her legs. And if you're going to "lick her G-spot", then I need to ask you to please keep at least three feet away from my ice cream cone.

Thanks to Kent however, WWHM plans to produce our own nationwide "Best Oral" competition next year to avoid further confusion in men's personal ads.

That's right folks, get ready for the 2009 Vulvies Awards.

Sponsored by John Deere lawnmowers. (OK, that was pushing it.)

Backfire

2008-11-20T02:48:00.000-08:00

Mr.Right....Now -

I desire to find you now. I am about to give up soooo much just to meet you and take a chance on true love-not mediocre love that is way too common. I have shed tears every time I read a romantic greeting card because I do not have someone to tell those beautiful things to- i feel like crying. The next lady to connect with me will be the happiest lady on the planet - Tim

Women are genetically predisposed to seek out aggressive, unpredictable and dominant males. To attract females, men must exhibit a kill-or-be-killed mentality, show absolutely no fear in the face of incredible danger, and must prove they have an innate ability to protect you in the most harrowing of situations. Men that successfully project this Herculean image are regularly rewarded with countless 3am trips to your apartment because "you thought you saw a moth."

But sometimes we find guys like Tim, who instead presents himself as a blubbering, impotent pantywaist soaking the aisles of Rite-Aid with tears after reading a romantic Hallmark haiku. I'm not calling him a pussy, but if he cuts himself, I'm grabbing a maxi-pad in Aisle 6.

So if a man knew he had to project an image of confidence and strength to attract a woman, why would he post a personal ad that implies he posts muffin recipes on his refrigerator and shaves his pubic hair into a heart shape?

Because he's an idiot.

After years of women complaining about the "emotional unavailability of men,” Tim has neglected his bravado and chosen the sneaky back-door tactic of displaying his emotional vulnerability up front in hopes of attracting a woman, not realizing that when women say they desire emotional vulnerability in men they mean they want it in men they are already dating. So, essentially, he's putting the cart in front of the horse's ass.

What that means, Tim, is women don't want you to admit you're a whining, soft-cocked, bird-fearing sissy boy before they date you. So instead of coming off as a sensitive man in your personal ad, you come off as the type of guy who hides behind a blind Girl Scout in a wheelchair every time a dog barks.

Why I Love Australia

2008-11-19T00:45:00.000-08:00

One of the great things about Australian and European cultures is their willingness to embrace a completely open dialect about all aspects of sex and human sexuality.

Our country collectively shit its pants several years ago when Janet Jackson's nipple popped out of her stage costume for one second during the Superbowl, and people literally lined up to sue her for emotional distress. Are you fucking kidding me?

Meanwhile, I was living on Bondi Beach in Sydney at the time, and there wasn't a bikini top in sight. How 13 year-old boys go to the beach in Australia without adding a right angle to their abdomens is beyond me.

But thanks to the many fundamentalist Christian conservatives who somehow get to dictate what the moral values of U.S. citizens should be, we would never be able to see great commercials like this on our televisions. What's wrong with it? Absolutely nothing. It's a great commercial.

But if the U.S. fundamentalist Christian conservatives saw this Australian ad on American television, can you imagine the uproar? They'd drop their abortion clinic bombing instructions right into the holy water they were planning to throw on gay people.

WWHM Returns Next Week!

2008-11-13T19:49:00.001-08:00

We'd like to welcome all our newcomers from Facebook, LiveJournal, Ravelry.com, the Sydney Morning Herald and the E! Channel. Please note WWHM is NSFW, and deals with a mature subject matter in an immature manner. If you can laugh at human sexuality, you've found a great resource.

If you can't, please visit this wonderfully insightful page about penguins. Not only are they cute, but they taste wonderful on toast.

And remember, always wash your hands after reading WWHM.

Have a great weekend people! - The Weasel.

Cougar Hunting

2008-11-13T14:02:00.000-08:00

18 looking for hot cougar 40-50
18male looking for an older woman to fuck. Will please you until your whole body is tingling and you can't walk. I will fuck you like no other man can. Don't be scared! Email me and I can send you tons of picture any kind you want. You would have to have a place. Call Scott at XXX-XXX-XXXX.

Sending an 18 year-old boy to satiate the sexual appetite of a woman in her libidinous prime is like sending an aloof zookeeper into the polar bear exhibit at dinner time with half a sardine served in a decorative teacup. You're going to end up with a pissed off animal Scott, and you should be scared. Never write a horny woman checks that your penis can't cash.

Little boys like Scott don't realize women reach their sexual peak in their late 30's and early 40's. She no longer views her reproductive organs as a delicate and fertile flower; now it's a Battle Cage designed solely to deliver her mind-shaking orgasms. If you dare step into her war zone armed with "The Alphabet Technique" and a Planned Parenthood pamphlet tutorial of the G-spot you downloaded at the local community center, she's going to send you home in a body bag with a pee stain.

Conversely, 18 year-old men are also at their sexual peak. In a cruel act of nature which I'm sure God plans to someday post on YouTube, these boys need an OnStar service representative just to find the nearest erogenous zone. He thinks he's getting you off by going down on you; you wonder why it feels like he's gnawing on walnuts during oral sex. Combine the two and you've got a mature woman who knows exactly what she wants, and a young boy that doesn't have a clue how to give it to her.

Most young guns like Scott have been having sex for a couple years and figure they've got this whole "woman" thing figured out. Like most young men, he aggressively humps a 17 year-old girl like he's trying to smash a spider in her womb, and the girl has no clue she's experiencing bad sex. When and if she has an orgasm, she might whimper like she failed a calculus quiz, but he feels like he's done his job.

A mature woman on the other hand owns her sexuality. She knows how she wants to get fucked, where, when and how often. She doesn't want a whimpering orgasm, she wants to eat a bedpost. She wants you to fuck her perm straight.

Although you have the gift of unending stamina, I doubt an inexperienced teen's entry-level movie-theater mop closet moves will make her whole body tingle, and I'm pretty sure she'll be able to walk after you're done with her. In fact, she'll probably walk right to her dresser drawer to get her vibrator. And it's not for her.

Bend over, Scott. Welcome to the jungle.

Tutorial For Men: Why Women Give Out Fake Phone Numbers

2008-11-13T04:19:00.000-08:00

I've received lots of requests to post this, and I actually posted it back in July, our first month to go live.

Here's the original post, along with the stupid rookie commentary I left back when WWHM wore diapers.

I'd call this guy a horse's ass, but I have more respect for the actual anus of a horse than I do for this guy. And the last thing I want is another horse anus upset with me. (Um....long story.)

Anyway, at least a horse's anus has an excuse for spouting shit as horrible as this. That's because the horse anus has one job and one job only: to release shit.

"I'm not a jazzercise instructor, I'm a horse anus, " the horse anus might say.

Good point, horse anus.

This guy on the other hand, has NO excuse for the shit he spouts.

Two words: Restraining. Order.

WWHM Wednesday

2008-11-12T04:37:00.000-08:00

Sorry WWHM'ers, I've been really busy so we only got one new post up today.

But to keep you hungry ladies off my back, I'm going to let you have sex with this handsome guy until my next post. Is he hot or what? I bet just looking at him makes you feel like you're sitting on a George Foreman grill.

Too bad he's hung like a sterilized tse-tse fly.

A couple pointers before you have sex him:

1. To properly remove self-tanner from your sheets, use three parts Shout It Out! and two parts Sherwin-Williams industrial grade barn paint.

2. Please note this guy is so pumped full of cow steroids he actually ejaculates tender strips of Kobe beef. Grab some A1 Sauce.

3. When he comes, he sounds like a little girl at a High School Musical screening. Stick a lipstick-absorbent sweatsock in his mouth.

4. He's balding, so he hasn't removed his stylish hat in 2 years. If you remove it, prepare to smell an open grave.

Have fun, and try to resist flossing your gums mid-coitus.

Congratulations to Old Cock for making the WWHM Hall Of Shame! Read it again right now if you haven't eaten in the past 12 hours (CAUTION NSFW!). And as the author of WWHM, I'm automatically granting Cock Talk immediate Hall of Shame status, simply because it's the most ridiculous ad I've ever encountered in 4 months at WWHM. Email your nominations to WWHM- I keep track!

Lastly ladies, do you have an important decision to make with your significant other in the near future? Tell him your stance, and then just show him your breasts. Why? Because it disables their ability to make a rational decision. And science now proves it.

Wow, I'm glad it took "science" to figure that one out. What's next? "Science proves guys want to fuck all the time."

Duh.

(Image courtesy of HCwDB)

Mama's Boy

2008-11-11T22:49:00.000-08:00

Hard to pass me up!

Hello ladies, a little bit about myself. I graduated from Duke University a couple years ago. I have a great job which pays incredibly, a Lexus, and an apartment which is filling out very nicely. I've been wanting to buy a house, but there is one thing missing, my thin, beautiful trophy wife on my arm. You should be athletic (I run five miles every day, rain or shine) and your fat ass will not be sitting on the couch. You should be intelligent enough to hold a conversation in polite company, but know your place, and when it is appropriate to speak. You should know how to cook, because I am tired of ordering in, and going out every night. My mom has already said that she'd be happy to show you how to cook some of my favorite meals. You can be college educated, however you won't be working anyhow, so I don't see how it matters. Unless of course you studied home-making. Be sure to send a full body photo of yourself, clothing optional. *wink* Steven

I'm sure we all remember that strange kid with the plastic helmet in second grade that used to spend half his day eating wasps and the other half sticking his tongue in the pencil sharpener. Tempered brilliance tends to manifest itself in a bizarre fashion with youngsters, so most of these kids actually end up as mildly successful adults just like Steven did.

Mothers excessively coddle these disturbed youths however, and as a result they tend to grow into adulthood with a bloated sense of entitlement, especially in regards to women. That's unfortunate, because Steven sincerely believes he's an irresistable catch for any woman, despite the fact that just up until last year he couldn't shit properly without wearing a blue cape that said "I'm Mommy's Favorite Sooper Pooper" in pink stitching. He continues, however, to make tractor noises when he wipes.

So as expected, Steven has done quite well for himself. He graduated from Duke University and found himself in a high-paying job. So high-paying in fact, that not only has he has been able to afford something called an apartment, but he also drives a Lexus. Wow, Steven, that's pretty impressive.

Until you consider the fact that the last time I saw a Lexus, I was stepping out of one and heading into .... wait for it ..... my apartment. I'm a man that writes a blog about penises and I have the same accoutrements as you, yet you don't see me ordering my girlfriend to make me a goddamn pot roast.

Anyway, Steven seeks a thin, beautiful, educated woman that can cook and knows when to keep her mouth shut. That sounds like a fine selection, Steven, because when she's aggressively cooking the pool boy's cock in her thin and beautiful uterus, she'll be educated enough to keep her mouth shut about it.

Maybe when your mother is sharing tips with your new girlfriend about how to raise bread properly, she can share with your mother some tips on how to raise children properly.

Now go buy her some new shoes, bitch. The pool boy is almost here.

Welcome To A New Week at WWHM!

2008-11-09T15:00:00.000-08:00

Welcome to a brand new week at WWHM World Headquarters, located in beautiful downtown Dubuque, Iowa right next to Wing C of Tom's Animal Rendering Plant!

Speaking of Tom's Animal Rendering Plant, that's how we lost our precious WWHM cat, pictured here on my obtuse thorax, who accidentally fell in the beluga whale chopper last fall.

While we did enjoy having the cat around the office, we also enjoyed him as a zesty and protein-rich sandwich spread. Thanks Tom!

Ladies and gentleman, WWHM is excited about the spread of WWHM to all corners of the globe. But as new viewers continue to stream in to WWHM every day to pore over the nauseating specimens of men we analyze, we like to remind our readers that WWHM is a disgusting, vile and immature website dedicated only to those who enjoy our particular brand of humor and our underlying message as a whole. If you like to live in a dreamy world of rainbows and ponies, we recommend you visit this website instead.

Are they gone yet?

Alright fuckers, let's do this! Welcome back regular readers, and welcome to the growing number of colleges, universities, employers and Facebook users making WWHM a daily distraction from their responsibilities. Ready to see some idiots trying to get into your pants?

Let's do the posts!!!!!!!

And remember ladies, your stories are better than mine, so feel free to put them in the comments!

Car Jackin'

2008-11-09T14:53:00.000-08:00

Watch me get off?
I am a normel 50 age male who has a life long goal of woman watch me jerk off in my car in public. Stand by bus stop or parking lot and I will pull up to you and get off in my car. All you have to do is watch me stroke myself to cumpletion in my car no touching necesary. nice cock 9 inhes 5'7 200 clean cut and will be clothed. call Matt XXX XXX XXXX can pay up to $5 per time as insentive if you expose your pussy or hair

Mobile male masturbation dates back to the early 1800's, when one Bernard T. Huffingsworth was arrested on a red-faced horse outside a women's butter churning hovel for "coaxing forth God's seed fromst open knickers."

He was charged with one count of Dishonoring a Horse and two counts of Causing a Wench to be Aghast, and was sentenced to two days in jail. He was also ordered to feed his horse a Bible.

Matt aspires to achieve his "life long goal" of masturbating in front of a woman at a bus stop from his car. On the surface, WWHM readers may suspect this lowly goal qualifies Matt as a rather unmotivated individual, but let me assuage those concerns by assuring you he plans to clean the ejaculated sperm out of his belly hair with a Dairy Queen job application.

Sexual psychologists would suggest Matt suffers from a severe case of "exhibitionism," defined as "a perversion in which sexual gratification is obtained from the indecent exposure of one's genitals to a stranger."

I'd suggest those sexual psychologists stand at a bus stop for a couple days and see who's really suffering. Is it the poor woman on her way home from work, or is it the fat guy in a Toyota Spanker XE whose eyes are rolled back in his head as he groans like a shot moose and unloads another bleachy blast onto his windshield?

Interestingly, a recent poll of 12 friends of WWHM concluded that 100% of them had been the unwilling subjects of a serial masturbator at some point in their lives, so if you've been a victim, acknowledge it in the comments. Or even share the story, so we have something to talk about at Thanksgiving over pie.

A Night In Enid, Oklahoma

2008-11-09T14:30:00.000-08:00

SEEKING: ONE PRETTY LADY FOR FANCY NIGHT ON THE TOWN AT APPLEBEES

I HAVE: ONE FIFTY DOLLAR GIFT CERTIFICATE TO APPLEBEES, AMERICA'S FAVOURITE EATERY

YOU HAVE: TITS AND A TWAT
JIM

If you're looking for someone to blame for the poor wording in Jim's personal ad, we may want to point an accusing finger towards Applebee's new ill-advised marketing slogan for the Enid area of Northern Oklahoma:

Applebee's: Moistening Enid's Twats Since 1972

Anyway, today we meet Cowboy Jim, a man brave enough to detonate a "twat" bomb in a personal ad, yet still expects to see a piece of what he's referencing after he takes you to Applebee's. And pays with a coupon.

Here's an equation they obviously don't teach in Enid, Oklahoma:

Twat + coupon= hand + lotion.

If you use a coupon to take 100% off her dinner tab on a first date, she's going to counter with a coupon guaranteeing you 100% off of any opportunity of seeing her naked.

I don't know how it works in Enid, Oklahoma, but in Los Angeles taking a woman to Applebee's on a first date might earn me a weak handshake and a fake phone number. Paying with a coupon automatically upgrades me to the "Knee In The Balls" plan, likely accompanied by a simmering pile of excrement on my doorstep.

Enid likely has fewer dining options, 95% of which involve eating off of a wagon wheel, but the dining etiquette remains the same, Jim. Take note: Paying with a coupon on a first date makes you cheap, and to women, cheap has nothing to do with money. Cheap has to do with selfish. Women don't concern themselves with how much you tip in order to determine how much money you make. They do it to see who you are as a person.

There is an absolute, direct correlation between your tip and how many orgasms she's going to experience over the course of your relationship. And that number tonight will be zero for you, and three for her, only after she goes home and fucks the guy that took her to TGI Fridays and paid the full tab and tipped 30%.

Oh, and guys, if you try and hide how much you're tipping when you pay a tab, don't bother. She knows why you're hiding it. You cheap fuck.

Put your cheap dates and anything else in the comments.

Bits N' Pieces

2008-11-07T12:00:00.000-08:00

Hey guys, I'm off to parts unknown for a day or two for a quick shave.

A lot of of bloggers have been writing to ask how WWHM became popular. Believe me, it wasn't always this way guys. Four months ago I wrote this blog for 6-8 people, and they didn't even read it. But as I've told you all, it exploded once I posted a few comments on other blogs and it just somehow took off from there.

Feel free to use WWHM comments to promote yourself. In fact, post your direct links in the comments below to get started.

If you must have some losers today, here's a site from WWHM reader Jaime. Thanks Jaime!

http://www.mailorderhusbands.net/order/

I'll be back soon guys, and thank you for making WWHM a success. We've got kitten photos coming up next week, so you know what that means. ***YOU'VE BEEN WARNED***

Cock Talk

2008-11-05T19:30:00.000-08:00

Neglected penis looking for neglected vagina

Hi. I am a friendly but neglected penis looking for a friendly, beautiful but negelcted vagina. I dangle between the legs of a nice guy who has gotten into a rut of being too busy to take care of my needs. Do you lie between the legs of a nice gal who is like my guy, too busy to find you a penis for your pleasure? My guy's lips tell me he hasent even kissed a nice vagina in so long mr tongue is getting as restless as I am. I sure miss doing the slip and slide in and out of a nice moist vagina. My neighbors, the balls brothers tell me they are so ready to make a huge batch of their special, high protine, love potion for your gal's enjoyment. Caio baby. Greg

Good fucking lord, where do I even start with something this lame? This is like picking on The Real World cast.

Greg's been abusing his penis like an alpine ski pole for the last 20 years, and with this personal ad his dick just secured another fucking 20 years in solitary confinement.

I'm not saying your personal ad will turn women off Greg, but I know girls who would rather spend their last government food coupons on a cross-town bus trip to blow a semi-professional mime.

"Nice, moist vagina"? "Nice and moist" is how my grandmother would describe a piece of steamy senior-home poundcake. You know what you get when you tell a woman you want to feel her "nice, moist vagina"? You get a dry, closed vagina.

"Mr. Tongue","the Balls Brothers" and "love potion"? I feel like I just walked into a puppet show titled "How Not to Get Laid."

Congratulations Greg, you've successfully written the lamest personal ad I've ever seen on WWHM. Speaking in third person would be bad enough, but you don't even do that. You speak in penis person.

Hopefully your balls enjoy dangling, because they're going to be hanging idly like a basement windsock for the next 20 years.

What do they have to look forward to?

Your knees.

Identity Crisis

2008-11-05T19:00:00.000-08:00

Is it possible that I'm Gay?

I love to Cross Dress. I don't know why...maybe DNA...maybe subliminal advertising....maybe too much cable TV. It just feels sexy to dress and feel like a woman. If you're a single woman, I could understand why you might be hestitant in playing with a strange man. Rest assured, I'm VERY submissive, and would be OK. Single guys I'm not so sure about, but maybe if you look OK. Seth

WWHM receives a lot of personal ads featuring rugged, burly men modeling the latest trends in dainty, girlish panties and lingerie. Every time I open my email, it looks like a Victoria's Secret outlet exploded at a fucking logging convention. But whether they're dancing in front of a mirror, lying across a mattress, or posing in a coy fashion on the couch, I can assure you even the sexiest lingerie in the world has a 100% fool-proof antidote: Balls.

Putting lingerie over a pair of balls is like putting a little pink tank top on a shark; you may be trying to sex yourself up a little, but we still know what's going on underneath. Yet the whimsical, carefree Seth attempts to further conceal his balls utilizing a technique called the "tuck-under." By pulling the penis back into the open, fragrant prairies of the taint and closing his legs tightly, a man can make it appear he has no genitals at all. The problem is keeping it back there; it's like trying to stuff a housecat in a travel cage.

Conservative straight Midwestern guys like Seth often worry that an appreciation for wearing women's clothing makes him "gay." That's like putting on a pair of moccasins and worrying people will think you're an American Indian. Wearing women's clothing doesn't make you gay, Seth. Going to parades makes you gay. You really need to educate yourself.

We don't know if you're gay, Seth, and we don't know why you cross-dress. If you think corporations spend billions of dollars on subliminal advertising to sell you hamburgers, I could maybe see your point. But if you think corporations spend billions of dollars on subliminal advertising just because they want you to slip into a slinky pair of purple fishnets, then you're not gay, you're crazy.

Plus, I've watched 20 straight hours of Entourage and I didn't find myself wearing a pair of edible crotchless panties, so I don't really think you can blame cable TV either.

You wanna know why I think you like wearing women's clothing? Because you like wearing women's clothing.

(Remember guys, WWHM is going in a new direction. Cross-dressing is NOT a reason for women to hate men. We're going to make fun of all kinds of sexual quirks on WWHM from now on, because all human sexuality is hilarious. Not only do I need to change the name of WWHM, I also need to start trying on women's clothing. I'll start right now with a breezy, summery scarf.)

Welcome Australia!!

2008-11-05T18:58:00.001-08:00

We've been getting thousands of hits from Australia today, which should re-assure American women that we're not the only country in the world full of douchebags. Welcome Aussies! Be warned, this website isn't pretty.

WWHM Election Day Issue!

2008-11-04T04:02:00.000-08:00

Good morning WWHM readers, and welcome to the Election Day Issue of WWHM!

And for the thousands of WWHM readers outside the United States, what does Election Day mean? It means your chances of being on the receiving end of a Teledyne AGM-158 high-precision air-to-land missile for a couple of barrels of rotted dinosaur bones just went down about 98%. Congratulations Ulaan Bator, Mongolia, now feel free to go about your regular daily business! We will not steal your sheep!

I'm The Weasel, your cordial host into the shady world of WWHM. What is WWHM you ask?

WWHM is a heavy, nasty and pasty stew of clueless men who have no fucking idea how to relate to women. Are they just shy? Unfortunately, no.

No, we analyze the type of men that make you dry heave like a grass-fed cat. We amalgamate these men into a rancid, viscous ghoulash called WWHM that not only entertains you, but also acts as a fecal-based burning agent that you can cast forth at your enemies eye sockets, causing them to flee post haste in a robust combination of fear and horror.

Well, here I am ready to go cast my vote for President of the United States! You see, in 2004, I tied a string around my finger so I'd remember to vote, but I forgot. So in 2008, I'm stepping it up a notch and chaining myself to Dick Cheney whilst adorning myself with an 18th century cast-iron man-cloak. Man, my balls itch so bad I'm about to release a cauldron of snapping beetles into my over-snug llama-skin cock sleeve. Pray for me!

I can't wait for the results tonight folks, and please make sure you get out and vote today. This is the most important election we will ever face in our lifetime.

As always, let's do the posts...............

(Hey, thank you WWHM fans! November 1st was our 4th month anniversary. With over 300,000 hits, I can't thank you enough. Keep spreading the word of WWHM!)

Unrealistic Expectations

2008-11-04T04:00:00.000-08:00

Single Male 49 needs girlfriend

Im looking for a replasement girlfreind that left me// we always fight, so why bother styaing in a relationship with a fucking bitch? .Im looking for skinnywoman with no issues please be pretty and understanding, sexual in bed plus you will cook for mebecuase i can't. Must be pretty, thin, young attractive most important mid 20s under 30 i have trailer and job. Kevinn email kevinnXXXXX @ XXXXX.com

WWHM reader SR writes in:

"Weasel I find it funny how these fat, unattractive, old guys show their cocks in personal ads and say they are seeking 'attractive, thin, young women'. Look at yourself! Go on a diet! Why do they do that?"

Well, luckily for you readers, I was at least able to slice off Kevinn's penis. Unfortunately I used Photoshop, so I'm only speaking metaphorically. On that note, if Lorena Bobbitt ever feels the need to hurl another hastily amputated pair of genitals out of a truck window, all she has to do is visit my "Recycle Bin." It's like a fucking catch basket for a medieval penis guillotine.

SR, that's a great question. Time and time again on WWHM, we find disrespectful assholes posting grainy cellphone photos of their sagging scrotums online, and then expect a Heidi Klum look-alike in red fishnets to break down their trailerhome screen doors holding a tube of KY Jelly in one hand and a steaming bowl of garbanzo beans with a T-bone steak in the other.

Clueless idiots frequently suffer from delusions of grandeur. An ideology that they can expect certain standards from women, yet don't have to meet those same standards themselves. Hence:

"...she has to be thin ..." he scribes, as he generously coats another healthy, whole harp seal with margarine and swallows it like an Advil.

".....I want her to be young......" he ponders in the elevator at Target, gyrating rhythmically while snapping his fingers enthusiastically to instrumental versions of 50's Bing Crosby show tunes.

"...and she must be attractive...." he insists, as two pustulating boils threaten to merge on the crown of his nose like a chain of active Pacific volcanoes, blocked only by the emerging row of malformed horse teeth currently emanating from his nasal passages.

Fortunately, in real environments, women usually respond to these aggressive, gangrenous blowhards by kicking them in the fucking balls so hard their stomachs will have to digest more white swimmers than a starving shark in Laguna Beach on a Labor Day weekend.

By the way, I love the term "replacement girlfriend." Apparently you ladies should stamp 'General Electric' on your asses, because you're just as disposable as a common lightbulb. The next woman to date this guy will have something in common with a lightbulb, however.

She'll be screwed.

Dancing Fools

2008-11-04T03:30:00.000-08:00

The Weasel went out to a couple clubs this weekend.

Playing the role of "social maverick," I hid in the corners and nervously sipped a Shirley Temple all night whilst my legs trembled in fear of an actual woman approaching me and attempting to start a conversation. Just the thought of such an occurrence caused my weak bladder to continuously emit a laser thin stream of watermelon-tinted urine into my Haggar slacks, causing an effigy of Our Lady of Guadalupe to form just above my left knee. I was then followed home by 74,000 third-world Catholics with candles and a FOX news crew on a break from distorting reality.

But I witnessed an unspeakable horror at the club, a male behavior so reprehensible yet laughable that today we're gonna play a little show-and-tell with the group.

We're talking about men that dance by themselves in a club and/or bar. The insufferable fucking douchebags with armband tattoos, Ed Hardy T-shirts, and enough Axe Bodyspray to sterilize the entirety of gametes present in the collective wombs of the club.

And I present to you a recorded sample of just such an occurrence. Please note, the girl in this video is openly mocking these guys for attempting to dance sexily by themselves in a comical effort to seduce a woman.

I salute this woman for performing her civic duty of making asses out of these ridiculous cocksmokers. If anyone knows the woman in this video, please forward her name and address to me so I can rub her feet and hand feed her Bon-Bon's in a spa tub for eternity. I love you, sweet damsel.

And I hope to someday tickle your Chiclets.

Animal Attraction: A Brief Synopsis

2008-11-04T03:00:00.000-08:00

Furry Companion?

I am interested in "furries" (?) in my area. I am agoraphobic and cannot easily explore outside of my building. Would anyone be willing to come to my condominium in XXXXXXXX tomorrow or Saturday?

When most people spot a moose in their backyard, their first instinct is to run into the house and hide. However, for a few select others, their first instinct is to run into the house and put on a hide- and grab a nice bottle of wine and some Marvin Gaye records while they're at it.

Just kidding. We have to make a distinction first, because in our example above, we're actually describing "bestiality", which refers to humans initiating sexual contact with actual animals. Bestiality is always disgusting, unless I'm alone in the WWHM offices and a confident sheep with a coy demeanor just happens to waltz into my office wearing a frilly garter and dark green eyeshadow. Then it's called youthful exuberance. Followed quickly by alcohol poisoning. Take notes, Mr. Gere.

Today, we're actually going to discuss "furries", a peculiar sexual fetish characterized by a desire to dress up and role-play as an animal. Which is not disgusting at all, but rather just completely fucking odd.

If you think about it, "furry" sex is just like regular sex, only there's no kissing, no touching, and rather than making love to a woman you feel a deep emotional passion for, you're blindly dry-humping the shell of a large plastic Chinese chipmunk ensemble. Wow, talk about some deep thinking on a long drive home.

Psychologists theorize "furries" share a basic set of common traits; frequent exposure to and idolization of animals and animal characters as a youth, a feeling of detachment from other human beings, and a close relationship with a dry cleaner capable of extracting large semen stains from the intricate faux-fur of an overblown raccoon head.

"Plushies" are similar to "furries", only they have an attraction to stuffed animals, as opposed to real animals, or humans dressed as fake animals. In addition, some "furries" may be "plushies" if they enjoy dressing up as an animal and having sex with a stuffed animal rather than another "furry". Am I the only one that feels this blog entry needs a fucking flow chart?

Plushies may outfit their favored animals with multiple genital entry points, as plushies frequently enjoy having sex with stuffed animals. So apparently "double-stuffed" doesn't just apply to Oreo cookies, and we must continue to recognize the differences in the creamy fillings. But God help us if Hasbro and Nabisco ever merge.

Some other "furry" terms? "Yiffing" refers to a sexual act while in costume, a "furpile" denotes group furry sex, "skritching" means affectionately tending to another's costume, and "spooge" is the term used for ejaculate, proving furries aren't always as creative as they think they are.

Lastly, furries utilize the term "furvert" for those who are sexually attracted specifically to college mascots. Indeed I find it odd that a grown man getting boned in a gopher suit refers to someone attracted to the Stanford Tree as a word so closely associated with "pervert."

(WWHM realizes that some of our posts don't live up to the blog name Why Women Hate Men. Being a "furry" is not a reason for women to hate men. In fact, WWHM staff does not find any fetish offensive to women at all. Except poop. And urine. And bestiality. We just like to mix up our posts now and then to make fun of different aspects of human sexuality. Because, fuck, even regular sex is funny. Plus, we'd like to sincerely apologize to Mr. Gere for once again prolonging the stupid "gerbil in the ass" urban legend. He still won't get caught dead in a pet store.)

I'll Be Back!

2008-11-01T12:32:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, I'm running out of town for a swim meet for a couple of days.

As you can see, I bought a new sleek aerodynamic swim outfit. The salesguy said it would cut my time in the 1000-meter by at least one second.

I had high hopes, but for some reason, my time has actually gotten slower. Hmmm.

It's almost feels like I'm dragging something behind me, and for the life of me I can't figure it out. And why are there so many goddamn squirrels in this pool?

Maybe I should shave my legs?

I don't know, but if you guys have any suggestions, let me know.

I'll see you next week.

WWHM Blames Porn #3,587

2008-10-30T16:19:00.000-07:00

I have Exam Fantasy

Come over and explore a patient/doctor fantasy. Come over to my house, and we will do a normal gynicogical exam. I will examine you in a special chair and we will go from there. I have this fantasy for years, very hot Email XXXXXX@. XXX.XXX -Hawk

Occupational fantasies have been around for centuries. Scientists acknowledge pre-historic women often fantasized about sleeping with esteemed tribal firestarters, who probably tired quickly of cavewomen's repeated sexual innuendos regarding his profession. "Yeah, I've never heard that one before," they'd sigh, as another bored and horny cavewoman suggested she knew a place he might want to try and start a fire.

Occupational fantasies continue today. While many men fantasize about sleeping with teachers, nurses or waitresses, women often fantasize about about sleeping with construction workers, police officers or firemen. But gynecologists? Not particularly, which might explain why I still have 60,000 copies of WWHM's The Erect Gynecologist Swimsuit Calendar 2008 collecting dust in my garage. If you'd like to order one today, I'll throw in a jar of cold jelly and a phone shaped like a uterus that gets all emotional and cries when it rings.

Hawk, let me turn the tables on you. Would you answer the following personal ad from a woman?

"Complete stranger would like to come over and scrape the base of your urethra with a Q-Tip."

Maybe I'm asking the wrong guy, but if you can get your dick hard when someone is cyst mining your urethra, you really need to open up and talk about what went on at Bible Camp.

Mr. Sensitivity

2008-10-30T12:00:00.000-07:00

Looking for a woman as frustrated as me with this shit

Maybe im just not saying the right stuff in my posts. I wont kill or rape you i swear, just want to make you feel good because as weird as it sounds, there are actually some guys who find great pleasure in making woman feel good just to make the world a better place and dont want to just shoot thier load and dump the bitch To be honest it sickens and insults me at how insensative woman think guys are sometimes. Pael

Hello class! Welcome to WWHM 101, where today we hope to instruct Pael how a woman processes a personal ad.

Right behind a woman's ear lies an absorbent, spongy gland called the GHSP, or goddamn horse shit processor. The GHSP strains and extracts meaningful words and phrases from the virtual spraying shit hose of misinformation, false assurances, and distortions exhibited in men's personal ads. Straining a personal ad is similar to straining a pot of pasta noodles, Pael, only your flaccid penis doesn't haunt our personal space like a fucking boneless ferret hanging from a doorknob.

With the help of my secretary Dolores, I just strained your ad Pael, and her GHSP extracted the words "rape", "kill", "shit" and "bitch." Strangely, it also extracted 450mG of Viagra, a Ronco 3-gear Penis Pump, and a small Scottish boy questioning the whereabouts of his parents.

Dolores' GHSP then sent this information to her cerebral cortex where an appropriate response was formulated- she gouged her eyes out with a spork, threw her ovaries in a fern, took a vow of celibacy, and moved to a remote convent where she now harvests peas and cries herself to sleep at night.

So, yeah Pael, I think you might want to re-think some of the words in your personal ad. But I completely understand how it sickens and insults you that women find men sooooo insensitive. Because you know just what women want: just a grainy photo of your cock, some nauseating discourse, and a generous heaping of blame. That's sensitivity to a woman's needs!

In your next ad, you should offer them a free apron and a vacuum cleaner. That'll get 'em!

Don Juan

2008-10-29T23:33:00.001-07:00

FR sent in this lovely video about a guy with over 100 girlfriends. Quite interesting, and I suggest you share it with your grandparents around the hearth on Thanksgiving.

Lastly, don't worry about the blog trolls, guys. They don't bother me, and just like FHOTD suggests, if you ignore them they just wither back to their little holes and try to find other ways to get the attention they so desperately seek. I'll tell you right now, WWHM is immature and offensive. If you can't handle it, please don't read it. To the thousands that read it every day, thanks for your support and I love you guys.

Prison Break

2008-10-28T14:39:00.000-07:00

BAD BOY LOOKING FOR SOME ACTION

im fresh out of prison so dont be scared.im just a good guy who got caught up and robbed banks.no threat.im looking for a girl who wont be afraid to put it on me!im way horny and looking to wreck something!im on limited time so if there is a WOMAN out there and ur interested!hit me up and im there!! Lee

Ladies, let me tell you how horrible prison is.

Imagine getting powerfully fucked in the shower every day by an endless line of brawny, tattooed, dominant and faceless men who use you only to satiate their deepest and most instinctual sexual desires. It's a nightmare scenario that..... um....ok....... apparently we need a 5 minute break so you can all retrieve your vibrators.

Are you done yet? Geez, I haven't seen that many quivering lips since a hunter shot Bambi's mother.

Women seeking to get fucked like a common barn hen may enjoy a romp with a guy like Lee, who posted a personal ad seeking sex from someone who won't leave stubble burns on his thighs or pay him in Saltines. Lee just got out of prison, and would appreciate an opportunity to finally fuck something that doesn't laugh hysterically at farts. If you're up for the challenge, cover some plums with syrup, roll them in cat hair, and hang them from your uterine sponge. That way when he reaches down to tickle your balls, there won't be a stop in the action.

Lee hasn't seen a pussy in so long, he'd probably play Scrabble with it. The cramped confines of prison walls will do that to a man. Spending 7 years in a crowded and uncomfortable space, eating that horrible food, and dealing with such uncaring, brutal employees- imagine flying United Airlines for seven years, but throw in some confrontational ass-fucking. Thankfully for Lee, prison rarely sends your luggage to Guam and patronizes you with a fucking $5 Bartell's coupon.

Proceed with caution: a guy who hasn't been with a woman in seven years will attack your vagina like a threatened bear. Curlers, grannie panties, or Crocs- no antidote will deny his determination to live in the confines of your Levi's for at least a couple months. At work you'll walk around like you just rode a fat horse from Dallas to Fargo, because a guy fresh out of prison puts more miles on your crotch than Christmas puts on a FedEx truck in northern Manitoba.

And thanks for being honest, Lee, about the bank robberies- for a minute there we were concerned you might have committed some kind of crime or something.

Phew.

From Trailer Park Unit 342A

2008-10-28T14:00:00.000-07:00

Do you ladies want my body look

ill let you have all of me as long as you want,, ill be your puppy dog,, figure that one out,, hunny,, send me a note im here for you know!! Edgar

If there's one thing that makes women hornier than your body Edgar, I'd have to say it's Lowe's "Ducks in Autumn" wallpaper motif.

But the open toilet filled with urine ought to juice 'em up just right.

The Dictator

2008-10-24T22:07:00.000-07:00

Beautiful cock now available for worship

Women adore worshipping my enormous perfect cock, do you want to give it a try? I'm 7+ glorious inches, circumcised, with a long hearty thick shaft, and, nicely shaved balls. I have an enormous cumshot sure to please you. Mine is nice and hard,come suck on my absolutely beautiful, hard, and juicy, cock tonight. David.

Yeah, we get it David. Your breathtaking, blue-ribbon cock is a masterpiece, a gland even more awe-inspiring than a box of kittens with bone cancer singing "The Star Spangled Banner."

We must see to it that your penis is immediately placed on a delicate velvet pillow, enclosed in an airtight oxygen chamber, surrounded by armed guards, and transported to the Chamber of Esteemed Genitalia in Vienna, Austria.

You know ladies, it wasn't always this way.

Like all men, David was once an innocent little boy just like yours, a boy happily willing to exchange everything between his legs for 5 minutes alone with a cheap Japanese talking robot with rotating sirens. Yet David has morphed into a grown man sitting at his computer, scribing an ode to his penis with the same intensity of a modern beat poet sitting on a cliffside, cursing birds for their ability to fly.

How does this awful transformation take place?

When a boy is 6 years of age, his penis merely seems a nuisance, an unsightly weed sprouting from the cracks in the driveway of his body. It pees on his Batman sheets, flops around like an agitated salmon in his Toughskin jeans, and sometimes gets hard and leaks gerbil tears.

But by the age of 11, the testicles foment an uprising against the body. Armed with millions of white-tailed, bleach-flavored soldiers, the oft-neglected penis launches a brutal takeover of the body and quickly establishes an absolute monarchy. The demands? Hustler magazine, constant visual contact with breasts, and all the vaginas you could hope to fit in the Grand Canyon. And then some. For eternity.

So it's not David talking here, it's his cock. Like all men, his cock is shaping his every action and decision. He has no choice.

As he wrote this ad, I'm sure David sat at his computer weeping lightly to himself "Please, cock, don't make me do this," but his words were wasted on pleading to the Master.

"Type it, bitch! G-l-o-r-i-o-u-s!"

So next time a guy says something offensive to you, remember, it's not him. If you need to get the message across to a man, kick him in the fucking balls. Then he'll understand.

(This entry, as are all entries, was written by The Weasel's balls. Which are far more glorious than David's.)

Adventures In Internet Dating

2008-10-23T22:17:00.000-07:00

Seking Adventureuos F 4 Advetnure

36 male am intrested in meeting women coming to strip club with me Tue or Wed. I have VIP card and know the girls, not what you think it is. I will pay for dances you pay for drinks, hoping you stroke my balls hard at club or at car. Maybe come home with dancer and share?, If intrested please be disreet, email Tripp XXXX @ XXX.com

A recent study by Cosmopolitan magazine revealed that women are particularly attracted to a man with a sense of adventure. My sister, however, didn't appreciate my "sense of adventure" when she caught me masturbating to her Cosmopolitan magazine. Sorry sis, just let it dry and peel the pages apart like an avocado.

Tripp has a keen sense of adventure, and hopes you'll accompany him to his local strip club by attempting to assure you it's "not what you think it is." So if you think it's just another unemployed vacuum salesman trying to lure you into the backseat of his 1989 Toyota Tercel for a handjob with a Ukranian woman named "Taboo," let me assure you its exactly what you think it is. After all, bragging about owning a strip club VIP card earns you about as much vaginal clout as flashing around your platinum Greyhound bus pass; her pussy will seal so tight, your penis would have better luck penetrating the entry door of a launching lunar vehicle.

On a first date, Tripp, the woman you're with wants you to focus on her, not the Keith Sweat inspired anal gyrations of a woman whose pre-work regimen involves rinsing her fallopian tubes with six quarts of Pussy Dragon perfume and inflating her breasts to 36 psi at the Shell station across the street.

Unfortunately, your suggested date focuses on you and your false sense of adventure, which appears to wholly consist of having your sour-smelling trouser onions juggled in a strip club parking lot like two lone sweatsocks in an industrial towel dryer. Meanwhile, your date is inside contracting a mutant strain of bovine herpes from a $14 plastic cup of watered-down RC Cola. Yeah, Tripp, you're a real Ferdinand fucking Magellan of the dating world.

If you're feeling a little adventurous next time you post a personal ad, why don't you embark on a little sojourn over to your SpellCheck toolbar, you impotent tree baboon. If you'll notice, the only word you spelled correctly was a number, and you didn't even spell the number.

A fine way to ensure any woman that answers your ad will have the IQ of a pre-pubescent houseplant. Which is probably exactly what you're looking for.

WWHM Presents: By Popular Reader Demand!

2008-10-23T20:44:00.000-07:00

I've got your truth right here

Ok, so here's what I've learned from this site so far..... about 90% of the "women" on here are hypocritical, self-absorbed liars.... and at least 99% are sad, sorry little girls barely even old enough to know what a real date is. If there is one thing I can take from this site, it's the knowledge that most of you "women", (yes, I am using quotation marks for a reason) are looking for the same thing... and probably the same thing they just broke up with... Some pretty-boy douchbag with a jacked up truck and white framed sunglasses. Tell you what, just make it easier on yourselves and wear a tight shirt that says "I'm easy, now please take me home and treat me like garbage" Tell the truth. Let guys know that your not looking for "a smart, sesitive guy", or "Mr. right". Tell guys your looking for someone who measure up to whatever man meat is gracing the screen on whatever soap opera your watching while you sit and wallow in your own pool of washed up self-esteem. Or maybe you have and you've already popped out a kid or 4, in which case.... wow. You're on the path for a sad awakening. Chris.

Chris, I'm not saying this ad contains a lot of whine, but half my readers just drunken-dialed their ex-boyfriends and the other half are crying about a dog that died twelve years ago.

Chris is angry because no one responded to his initial personal ad. Which made him post an angrier personal ad, which even fewer women responded to, which led him to post this ad that, ironically, plenty of women are responding to. Unfortunately for Chris, I just assembled those responses into a 1,233 page manuscript titled "A Complete World History of Euphemisms for Needy, Small-Cocked and Desperate Losers," and sold it to Bantam Books for $1.3 million.

Women don't want men with jacked-up trucks and white sunglasses, Chris. If that was true, your insecure ass would be driving down to Sunglass Hut in your new lifted Ford Ranger. But inside that Ford Ranger would be the same hyper-jealous, needy fuckstick that doesn't have any motivation, calls his girlfriend 2,000 times a day to check up on her, can't make a decision for himself, and wants nothing more to spend the rest of his life inside his mother's aging, distended womb. And then you'd complain that women only like guys with tattoos and Porsches.

Here's a clue: most women would like a guy in a 1977 AMC Gremlin carrying a My Pretty Pony lunchpail if only he was a man and not a bitch to wipe the floor with.

What I think you need most is a frosted bear cookie, some warm milk, and a little nappypoo. And many WWHM'ers agree, seeing as how I've gotten this ad 5 times from my readers. That's nearly as many times I've gotten chlamydia from my readers, so readers, please stop sleeping with the WWHM personal ad posters. My season pass to the free clinic expires tomorrow.

If you really feel women are on a path to a sad awakening Chris, then I'm guessing you're already at the destination?

It's Another Glorious Week At WWHM!

2008-10-21T02:38:00.000-07:00

Welcome back to WWHM Headquarters, located in beautiful downtown Dubuque, Iowa, right across from Tom's Animal Rendering Plant- Wing C!

We have a surprise guest today- Tom!

Normally Tom is busy at the rendering plant next door braining ducks or wading in a vat of congealed sheep testicles, but he came over today to show us his goat milking man-bra. Apparently the goats are still too young to feed into the bone chipper, so he personally nurses them until they're ready to turn into salty meat chunks for the school kids.

See, Tom really cares about the animals that he brutally slaughters by the thousands!

Anyway, folks, we're back today despite an ongoing battle with a horrible virus here at the WWHM campus. Just like my grandma said, the action was incredibly hot at pregnantcalcuttamaleprostitutes.com, but so was the download rate for thousands of malware files. And as I type, I'm never sure if I just entered the letter "k", or ordered 18,000 pounds of erection cream.

We're going to try and fix our system tomorrow so we can be back for our mid-week postings, so keep sending in all the ideas, personal ads, photos, and youtube videos you find that fit WWHM. And if you're one of the hundreds of new readers to recently find WWHM, enjoy the archives and send me an email to say hello, or just post in the comments.

In the meantime, let's go to today's posts!

The theme? Stupid words that ruin personal ads. Like always, I love you guys!

(And remember, you can now vote for WWHM on Bloggers Choice, which you can find here! Vote in any category, or vote in all three. Don't worry, they'll kick me off soon anyway!)

Snatched!

2008-10-20T19:37:00.000-07:00

I'll Shave your snatch

I'll shave your snatch if you shave my back..Foreal deal hit me up. Geoff

The staff here at WWHM regularly puts a select group of females through a battery of tests to determine which words they like and don't like in personal ads.

The first word I realized women don't appreciate is when I referred to them as our "testees."

After receiving a furious beating with a battalion of extremely fashionable purses and gorgeous yet simplistic footwear, I calmed down the participants by referring to them as "subjects," and by providing a bowl of low-carb movie snacks and telling them I really liked their new breezy, modern hairstyles.

We've discovered one of the most popular words that instantly turn a great personal ad into a bad one is the inclusion of the term "snatch." In fact, I actually have a clip of such an ad stored in my archives. Roll the tape!

".....I'm physically fit, professionally employed and the proud father of two beautiful girls ages 6 and 8. But after happily getting divorced two years ago, I really miss the sweet smell of a moistened snatch, ........."

The word "snatch" instantly drains any sexuality out of the vagina, as it sounds like a term more qualified to describe an Indian hut constructed out of palm fronds, or perhaps a certain species of flightless quail. To put it in perspective, gentlemen, imagine a lusty woman approaching you and begging to fondle your stiffened "wheat germ." Believe me, your cock will drain so fast you'll wish your taint had airbags.

Back to Geoff though, a man whose back hair could nourish a pasture full of Namibian field goats. Geoff wants to trade an unpleasant activity (shaving his back) for a pleasant activity (shaving your "snatch"). Apparently Geoff thinks he's a Early American colonist and you are a Native American Indian, a proud people who once traded away a piece of land the size of Connecticut for a jug of moonshine and a pair of pointy English lounge shoes.

Geoff, shaving your back can involve anyone with one arm, a pulse, and a shocking disregard for the disgusting. But shaving her pussy requires trust, and women don't trust their pussy to a man who calls it a "snatch".

And on a personal note Geoff, The Weasel will admit that when he was a small boy, a boy so young his hairless and marble smooth testicles still gripped to his thorax like two baby koalas to their mother, he actually used the word snatch during a sexual encounter. And even at 15, her legs snapped shut like a well-oiled fox trap onto my startled baby turtle head, and transformed the glorious pink sheen of my legume-sized penis to a color more typical of a two month old banana sealed in a Sara Lee sandwich bag.

"Never again," my brain told me.

Any other mood-killing words or phrases women hate, you can post in the comments. Or you can just bash me for actually once saying "snatch."

Thanks For The Mammaries

2008-10-20T10:55:00.000-07:00

Loving your funbags!

Hello my name is Rueben and I would love to have fun with your D cup funbags! Do you enjoy having a man put his face between your mamaries glands and just licking everywhere including your lushious nipples and arreollas! I don't want sex or a relationship, just some time alone in between your jugs. I only require that you are size D or bigger (pic is best!)and if you are curently lactating thats a bonus. I love mamas milk. Finally have a man lust after your Funbags!

Rueben somehow manages to refer to breasts as "funbags", "jugs" and "mamaries glands" all in the course of 30 seconds. Which is commendable only if one is appearing on Family Feud and the question is "Name a word idiots use to describe female breasts."

D-cup women must be thrilled to find a man that is finally willing to lavish some attention on her breasts, nevermind the fact that she could open her front door naked, blow an airhorn, and cause a stampede of men not seen since the allied invasion of Normandy. If a D-cup woman is a planet, then men are her constantly orbiting, scummy moons. In fact, if you really want to get laid by a woman with D-cup breasts Rueben, walk up to her and say "Wow, I really love your eyes." Considering she likely hasn't heard that since puberty, she'll be acidophilus in your hands.

But no, Reuben chooses the old route of focusing on breasts. He even says "I don't want sex or a relationship, just some time alone in between your jugs." So not only does he clarify he doesn't want a relationship with you at all, he specifically wants to be alone with your breasts. Tell you what Reuben, hang two cantaloupes from a parking meter, and I'll milk a giraffe over your head. You'll get the same effect, only the parking meter won't yawn.

To attract a large-breasted woman, try using an unconventional approach. First, stop with the "bend over" dates, like trips to the petting zoo, a pumpkin patch, or the Grand Canyon. If you really want to impress her, take her to an air show or birdwatching. Second, try to maintain a straight face when approaching. The last thing she wants to see is another guy staring at her breasts like there's two leprechauns doing a riverdance while tossing a frisbee on her chest. The eyes bugging out, the jaw dropping- save it for ghosts.

Welcome to WWHM!

2008-10-18T00:24:00.000-07:00

Welcome to WWHM Headquarters, located in beautiful downtown Dubuque, Iowa, right next to Tom's Animal Rendering Plant-Wing C.

I'm The Weasel, your fearless male leader into a tragic world of dangling penises, mattress fuckers, and poorly packaged genitals that emit the same tangy, gamy odors you might find emanating from the bloated carcass of a beached whale smothered with a gelatinous mix of AstroGlide and expired beet paste.

Where do we find these horrors? We find them in personal ads posted on public internet bulletin boards of course, constructed by clueless men who wouldn't know a vagina if it sat next to them on the bus and started playing the pan flute.

See, unfortunately ladies, the photo accompanying today's "Welcome" post belies a tragic truth about men on the internet. They claim to be Exhibit A, but ultimately you'll be sharing a Moons Over MiHammy at Denny's with Exhibit B and splitting the tab. He won't tip, he'll tell you he's a "bad boy", and you'll have to jumpstart his 1986 Honda Accord before you manage to peel out of the parking lot.

Our personal ads can range from bizarre to disgusting, from clueless to insecure, and they're pretty much all idiotic in one way or another.

Please note that WWHM is vile, immature, nauseating, and definitely NSFW. I, nor my thousands of daily readers, would have it any other way. This blog is read by about 80% women, and their commentary would cause even the most hardened Bering Sea crabber to blush, cross his legs, and protect his genitals with a halibut.

Who am I to judge? I am no one. I am a small, weak man with a penis more aptly suited for a cold and frightened seahorse. I cower at rustling leaves and frequently urinate in my cheap Chinese briefs at the sound of a distant thunderclap. Bunnies frighten me, and in my spare time I hide in my closet and nibble on Saltines hamster-style.

But I write the jokes, so I'm here to stay.

So for you new readers, I update 2-3 times per week. And for you old readers, I fucking love you guys! And I'd like to thank whomever nominated WWHM over on Blogger's Choice, which I've never heard of before, but is currently sending me a lot of traffic. You can apparently vote for me here. So do it! Please everyone take one minute and vote. Let's make WWHM huge!

We'll see you next week!

Surfin' USA

2008-10-16T23:26:00.000-07:00

Any Hottie Girls down 2 watch a Surfer JacKing oFF?

Yup..for real here....chill ass surfer jock into showing off to females...love getting caught jerking off...whatever your down for though most girls like seeing me nutt on my board. Erik @ XXXXXX.XXX

Oh, fucking please ladies, behave yourselves. Stand up before you stain your chair. There's so much estrogen flowing in here, I just fucking lactated and bought three pairs of shoes I'm never going to wear.

Look, I'm not gonna say looking at those hot cross buns has instantly put all you guys in heat, but if I scrambled all the eggs you guys just pumped onto the floor I could make an omelette to feed the Dallas Cowboys. You want me to put a pat of butter on those poop clippers and cover him with some fucking Golden Griddle?

Don't mind me, I'll just get back to my new job of selling flood insurance. For vaginas.

Anyway, you oversexed, horny wombats, meet Erik. Erik has placed a personal ad seeking some onanistic adventures on the beach. But I caution you, the reality of sex on the beach is never what you really think it is.

The gentle scrape of barnacle on ball sack.

The playful buttock touch of a pre-historic bivalve mollusk.

A thousand sand fleas turning your ass crack into TickleZone 2000.

The sudden and uncomfortable awareness of the depth of your fallopian tubes when filled with abrasive volcanic sand grains.

Believe me, it's bad enough when you get crabs, but imagine contracting actual crabs. The doctor doesn't prescribe a medicinal shampoo, he prescribes seagulls. And the last thing I want is a sloppy beakjob from a hungry seabird. The last thing you want is to get beak-fucked by a mangy bird that subsists primarily on discarded french fries and whatever falls off of a porpoise.

But Erik doesn't even want sex. He wants to jerk off for you, onto his surfboard. Gee, I wonder where you'll stand in that relationship.

I contacted Erik, and he told me there's a reason he took this picture for his personal ad. He wanted to show you the muscles on his back, but he didn't want you to see the mussels in his crotch. Spending half your life waist deep in seawater will do that to you. His dick looks like a coral reef in Kauai. There are so many fucking crustaceans ensconced in his genital area you could douse his nuts with butter and lemon and have a fucking clam bake.

Now why don't all 3,000 of you drooling ladies email Eric and ask him out for Halloween so you can dress up as a backyard surfboard.

With a hole in it.

This Duck Has Horrifying Genital Warts

2008-10-16T20:07:00.000-07:00

WWHM takes pride in the fact that we aren't a cock blog. Unlike priests, we don't share our penises with everyone at the playground.

But sometimes, even the staff at WWHM is horrified at what we find, and unfortunately, cock must be posted. And because we cannot unsee what we have seen, WWHM often posts pictures of animals to soften the blow- to warn you that what you are about to see you will change you as a person. You will become hollow and empty, and there's a good chance you'll be eating carrots out of a dumpster by nightfall.

But don't confuse the billowy yellow softness of this shit-eating duck for any weakness on my part. I am a man's man. I eat nails, and stomp on my own testicles when I spell a word wrong. I would buff my shoes with this duck and throw him into the spinning blades of an aircraft engine without thinking twice.

"Aw, what a cute little duck," you say. Well I know this duck personally, and he's a fucking cocksucker. Plus he owes me $50 for a sack of blow. You wanna know how cute this stupid fucking duck is?

Name: Jimmy "The Beak" Palitornio

Occupation: Pimp, hitman, small-time gambler, waterfowl.

Warrants: 1st degree arson, murder, aggravated murder, assault, felonious assault with attempt to injure, bookmaking, possession of narcotics, burglary, and two unpaid parking tickets.

Known Affiliations: al-Qaeda, People's Front for the Liberation of Lebanon, ACORN, Southern Lafayette Glee Club, FOX News, FARC, Bolivian Revolutionary Army, Curious Sam's Big-Time Country Jazz Ensemble.

Likes: Mayhem, crack cocaine, breaking bones, prostitutes, George Bush, bombmaking, bread crumbs.

Dislikes: Joy, smiles, freedom, love, pleasure, babies, herpes, eagles.

There's your cute little duck for you. He's a real piece of work. Things aren't always what they seem, are they?

Now on to the cock. You've been warned. Get your clam bucket ready.

Daisy Pukes

2008-10-15T22:16:00.001-07:00

Just A Simple Thing!

I am Exhibitionist Looking For Woman OVER 55 for CFNM Don't care what you look like. This I'm not so bad---just over 50 & we know what that means--we're just not quite as "desireable" as the younguns. btw--CFNM is clothedfemalenakedmale which I can elaborate on if you want. THANX! PS--discretion given & asked! Nik XXX-XXX-XXXX

You know, these looked a lot better on Daisy Duke than they do on Uncle Jessie.

Nik's an exhibitionist, and I feel strongly he'd at least win a blue ribbon if he ever entered his balls into an exhibition titled "The World's Most Disgusting Genital Area- Ever." Apparently someone inserted a sea anenome into a sausage casing and strangled it with Bon Jovi's tattered headband and called it a penis. Someone get it a fucking wheelchair.

We must remember that Nik posted this photo in an attempt to attract a woman to have sex with him. I don't think you chose the best photo Nik. You'd have a better chance of getting a woman in the mood if you posted photos of the 1994 Rwandan genocide, or perhaps a photo from a devastating car accident. When a woman looks at this photo, her eggs immediately jump out of her ovaries, split themselves open, leap into the nearest frying pan and scramble themselves.

Nik is seeking a CFNM session, otherwise known as a Clothed Female-Naked Male encounter, a popular fetish among men. I wouldn't worry about the "clothed female" part Nik, I'm sure you've been dealing with that your whole life. A woman wouldn't take her clothes off around you unless you had some rope and a barrel of moths. In fact, a woman wouldn't take her clothes off around you if she was on fire. "No thanks," she'd say, "they're just mildly irritating flames."

While you may think the teasing, wispy edges of your torn hot pants and your playful, rotted orange pubic magpie nest of a groin qualifies as you "not too bad", I think the readers of WWHM might offer a more sobering opinion in the comments section. If you're "not too bad", then Richard Simmons isn't "too gay".

Now spray that fucking thing with disinfectant and put on an armor suit so we feel safe.

Maggot.

WWHM Back In Action!

2008-10-15T02:09:00.000-07:00

Welcome to WWHM Headquarters, located in beautiful downtown Dubuque, Iowa, right across from Wing C of Tom's Animal Rendering Plant!

Man, I suck at cooking.

One minute I'm slicing garden-fresh tomatoes, and the next minute I'm covered in Saran Wrap and violently stimulating my taint with a ribbed and cock-headed walking cane.

This recipe sucks!

But you're not here for my cooking skills are you folks?

No, you're here to peruse the worst men's personal ads on the internet, because that's what we do here at WWHM Headquarters.

I'm The Weasel, your fearless leader into the world of shady men with the social skills of a retarded seahorse.

What do I ask from you? All I ask is that you become part of the growing WWHM community! So send in any personal ads you come across that make you want to heave partially-digested graham crackers onto your cat, as well as any other ideas you might find interesting for WWHM. This includes douchebags, assholes, vanity website shitbags, and any other stupid things that men do so this man can properly analyze them for you.

That's my fucking job!

Wanna taste? Let's do the posts.........

(Editors Note: Hey readers, please be aware I post personal ads verbatim, including improper word usage, poor spelling etc. Please don't email me to point out errors in the ads.)

The Hoser

2008-10-15T02:05:00.000-07:00

Cum in Buckets - 37M

Hi ladies! I am Steve a single man for long time who has not had sex in a long time, but I have a lot to ofer! I am 5 foot 7 about 255 lbs (not fat) and best of all I can offer you tons of cum. You won't beleive how much cum squirts out of my 5" (kinda small)dick, it will cover your face, breasts, hair and stomack, women absolutely love it! I have measured it, it can fill the bottom of a large coffee mug. I've been storing up for days and am ready to blast you the first woman that responds. You must pick me up and host at your house, call Steve at XXX-XXX-XXXX, valley area or north only first come first serve

There is a certain segment of society fascinated with the amount of ejaculate one experiences during orgasm. This segment is called "the men that are ejaculating." A powerful, voluminous ejaculation can produce an immensely powerful psychological high for males, who feel the quantity of ejaculate symbolizes their virility. It can produce an equal and opposite low for Steve's coffee mug, which now hopes to reincarnate as a festering testicular cancer cell in Steve's nuts.

Organon Pharma recently performed a study and determined that the average male ejaculation contains approximately one teaspoon of fluid, a teaspoon that likely can now sympathize with a certain coffee mug. But researchers have noted that some men, on occasion, can ejaculate up to 6 teaspoons in a single orgasm, a quantity capable of nearly filling an entire bowl. Hey Organon Pharma, where do you keep the Corn Flakes?

So now we meet Steve, a short, fat braggart without a car who fucks coffee mugs with a penis the size of a malnourished trout hatchling, and brags about how much you'll love him coating your face with his sperm. Believe me, his Sears catalog would thank you.

He also says he's single, and hasn't had sex in a long time. Thanks for the news flash, Steve. I'm not saying there's a correlation anywhere, but women just called Merriam-Webster and registered "Steve" as an antonym for "fantasy."

In reality, women won't care about how much you ejaculate Steve. Sperm could ooze out of your dick like cold sap from a dead tree stump, or shoot boxflies off the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with laser-like precision. Either way, the problem is the sperm comes out of you, a pencil-dicked social leper that makes women sick to their stomach.

Oh, sorry. I meant "stomack."

WWHM Presents: Gift Ideas!

2008-10-15T01:32:00.000-07:00

Hey ladies.

Do you have any really uptight, sheltered Baptist friends who you really feel just need to "get loose" once in a while?

Here's a great gift idea for them, a cordless battery-operated "Super- Massager". It's a stimulation device- for your complexion!

What did you think it was for? Beating eggs? You were close.

Perfect for those nights you're all alone, the "Super-Massager" allows you to lay back in bed, close your eyes, slowly spread your legs open to a relaxed position....and then massage your cheekbones.

That's right, this vibrating, bendable body massager will penetrate deeply into any body part, providing earth-shattering relief to your um...shoulders, neck or collarbone area.

It even works on your knees! Or your feet!

The "Super-Massager" is made of flexible latex rubber, allowing you to directly stimulate those hard to reach areas that beg so achingly to be relieved- like behind your ears or your lower back.

Plus, the latex rubber allows for easy cleaning after use- you don't want it to get covered with all those eyelashes and skin cells do you? Oh, and is your skin dry? Add some lubricant to really juice up those sensitive areas you really don't like to talk about- your temples!

And how about multi-speed fingertip controls? That's right, you can ratchet up the Super Massager when you really need to get in there and pound those brows with extra intensity to culminate in some seriously mind-blowing um.....facial relaxation.

Order one today. Your husband will love to watch you use it. He may like it so much, he may even use it himself! To massage his temples. Of course.

Bill In The Box

2008-10-14T13:00:00.000-07:00

Ladies Ladies Ladies.........

Hello all you women out there. I am looking for a women to fulfill a sexual fetish of mine. I love getting stuffed inside a cardboard box naked! Now you must have big hands like um... something like man hands! Cause I love seeing those big hands stuff me into a box naked! But anyways you need to also be hot like drop dead gorgeous. So if you think you are up for it hit be back with a email. I will be waiting for you..... Bill

Several years ago, I compiled a list of things to avoid in life:

1. Growling dogs.

2. People with bloody hatchets running through the streets yelling "That pigeon discovered the formula!"

3. Judgemental, hypocritcal squirrels.

4. Boxes that moan and smell of old ham.

Bill here violates Rule #4, as he likes to hide inside cardboard boxes. Some may say that just makes him a big ol' kitten at heart, but I don't know too many kittens sporting such a lovely and rugged handlebar moustache.

Bill has placed a personal ad seeking a drop dead gorgeous woman with large "man hands" to seal him inside a cardboard box. Which creates an interesting juxtaposition when considering the attractiveness of a woman, as most men consider "man hands" a definite deal breaker. You might be hot, but if you're attempting to stroke my cock with 10 grit sandpaper hands that could haul a dead giraffe through the llanos, your pretty breasts aren't going to keep my mind off the fact that you're whittling scraps of precious meat off my penis.

If I want my penis torn to shreds, I'll drench my balls in salmon paste and toot an eagle whistle.

I don't know too many gorgeous women who work in the large appliance shipping department of Sears that fix transmissions in their spare time, but if I did, I still doubt any would respond to this ad. While I hear many women coo dreamily about someday getting pounded like a piling by a faceless wanderer on a black horse, I rarely hear women brag that they had the greatest orgasm of their life last night by masturbating to visions stuffing a fat man with sausage fingers into a cardboard box.

Please pack with peanuts, coat with fucking stamps, and send to:

US Senator Larry Craig
United States Senate
Washington, DC 20510-1203

WWHM Back In Your Face!

2008-10-13T15:03:00.000-07:00

Hello ladies!

Did you miss me?

I have been thinking about you non-stop. So much so that I put on my grandmother's CountryWhore lingerie collection and went outside to anally violate a 1989 Toyota Land Cruiser doggy-style whilst whispering your name softly into my expired tabs.

It felt just like I was fucking you- without all the snoring.

But now you're here. Let me make love to you.

And don't worry if my penis smells a little like Valvoline 10W-40 high-mileage motor oil, because the viscosity is great for your vagina. Plus, it guards against leaks, sludge, and unwanted deposits- well, at least that's what it says on the easy-pour spout. Do you mind if I check you for leaks and sludge?

Fine ladies, I'll go take a shower instead. But just know this:

WWHM is back! And it's going to be worse than ever, and that's a promise!

We'll post the worst and strangest personal ads the internet has to offer- all served up by you, my beloved WWHM readers. What else do we have in store for the next few weeks?

We have an informative lesson on the penis coming up, plus an analysis of some sweet sex toys.

So stay tuned ladies, WWHM is making a comeback, just like those retarded kids they used to make after-school specials about.

And we're all going to learn a lesson about Why Women Hate Men.

New posts start tomorrow!

WWHM Takes a Break

2008-10-02T00:21:00.000-07:00

Welcome to WWHM World Headquarters, based in beautiful downtown Dubuque Iowa right across of Wing C of Tom's Animal Rendering Plant!

This is The Weasel, your fearless leader into the world of all that is foul and horrifying in men's personal ads.

Folks, once again we've had some things come up at WWHM Headquarters, and suddenly we are off to Los Angeles to have some important meetings, hopefully very important meetings.

We'll fill you in on the details when we come back, but until then, please enjoy the hundreds of archived entries we've put up in the three months since our inception. Yes, it's our three month birthday today.

I'd like to thank everyone that has participated in the sudden and unanticipated growth of WWHM these past few months, and hope you continue to enjoy the site and check back as often as possible. I never imagined this site would gather more than 1,000 hits in three months, but we're approaching 200,000.

We'll be checking our email, so keep sending your ideas and material in, and we'll be back soon!

I fucking love you guys!

That Not So Fresh Feeling

2008-10-01T17:33:00.000-07:00

Musky

What I think would be hot is for a woman to wear a pair of rubber under pants for a few weeks, only removing them to use the toilet. She would shower in them (but if you let your BO build that would be nice too), sleep in them exercise in them. and during those few weeks the musk from her vagina will build and stew. only to be released from the underpants when I take them off so that you can sit on my face and I can enjoy the flavor and aroma of you.

If this scenario interests you please email Tom at XXXXXX@XXXXX.com

My mother owns some strange breed of dog, I have no idea what it's called, but it's something like a "Twice-Baked Parking Spaniel". I always get it wrong, and my mother scolds me for it, as though I might somehow offend the dog by mis-characterizing its heritage. Sure, it doesn't know its fucking asshole from a green pepper, but don't insult its ancestry.

The dog has two purposes in life: first, to annoy the fucking shit out of everybody within a 10 mile radius, and second, to find the most disgusting, foul, horrifying dead and/or rotten substance known to man and roll around in it long enough to ensure every single hair on its body is completely saturated with the thick, savory juices of whatever has deceased and/or was excreted from some mysterious, long-gone anus.

Dead seagull? Sure, why not take a spin in the entrails. Huge pile of St. Bernard shit? Sounds like a zesty snack. Two week old moose carcass lying on the side of the road? Don't mind if I do.

Tom feels the same way about women. When he says he wants a dirty woman, he doesn't necessarily mean a porn star. He means an athletic nun with no running water that masturbates with the rotting head of a sea bass. Massengil? No way. Bass-engill? Bring it on! We had a term for this smell when we were 16 years old; we called it "proof." Nowadays we call it "disgusting." Tom? He calls it "tangy."

I don't know how popular a fetish this is amongst men. But The Weasel can attest more than a few times we've been out at the bars and this particular olfactory assault wafted through the air like a distant tornado siren. "Watch out," it says.

If I'm going to enjoy something intended to "build and stew," let it be the vegetable flavors in a hearty shrimp gumbo. Pussy? Not so much. The general rule is if you can smell the onions in the kitchen, you should just stay the fuck in the living room.

Unfortunately Tom, most women find doucheing light-spirited and fun! Dad and the boys watch football, while Mom and daughter bond with light-hearted douche talk! Doucheing. Bringing families together since 1954.

WWHM Returns Tomorrow

2008-10-01T14:23:00.000-07:00

As you can see, I had some very important calls to make yesterday.

Make sure you check back tomorrow for more reasons to acquire a taste for lesbianism......

.......and God knows I'd support that decision.

As long as you tell me about it.

In detail.

With graphs. And charts. Pics. Video. Re-enactments. Whatever you deem necessary to get the point across.

Gland Camp

2008-09-29T22:18:00.000-07:00

nudist seeking nudist

hi! do you want to explore the nudist community? i am 46 years old who enjoys living every day life in the nude seeking the same in a woman. i have gone thorugh a separation wwith my wife, but i have a cabin in a private nudist colony in eastern XXXXXXX county for the next week. i am seeking a woman to come enjoy, there are plenty activities from horses to nature walks to volleyball to parties on fri&sat. this is not about sexual nature, it is about being free and confident!how about you come join me race and size doesnt matter! brandon

One good thing about dating a nudist is you won't have to spend an eternity trying to figure out what to wear. Apparently the latest in stylish burglary gloves will do, and a helmet to make sure none of that nasty head hair gets mixed in with the abundant pubic hairs coating your soup.

There's really nothing wrong with nudity or this ad in general, it just seems spending a week at a nudist camp on a first date might rub most women the wrong way, just as I imagine riding a horse naked would. Chapstick anyone?

Most guys find that sharing a romantic dinner at a local restaurant on the first date might give a woman cause to remove her clothes. Hauling a woman 200 miles and exposing her to close-up views of your sweating, flopping genitals during a nude volleyball game likely won't have the same effect. She'll be wearing an Antarctic snowsuit inside an iron lung by the time you reach match point. But you have to remember, being nude isn't about sexuality. It's about freedom and confidence! So feel free to have the confidence there will be no sex with Brandon.

Personally, aside from sex or feverish, unscheduled masturbation, I only find one activity enjoyable while nude in front of strangers; sitting cross-legged with my hands cupping my genitals like I've entrapped an endangered songbird. My penis hasn't been in my "show-and-tell" inventory since I was 5. Size may not matter to Brandon, but that's easy to say when your cock could drink from a stream while your sitting on a freakishly tall horse. I'm hung like a frightened gnat in a cold shower. Thanks nature!

Luckily for women, most men won't request a first date take place at a nudist camp. Naked men worry too much that you'll judge them solely on their genitals rather than who they are as a person.

Wow. Does anyone smell irony in that last sentence?