“Jerking off to a Thomas Guide, man? That’s no way to live a life.”

I was talking to my friend Mark, who had invited me over to his cave-like apartment to have a look at his collection of (conceptual, he assures me) politically incorrect weaponry. I knocked on the door, heard a muffled acknowledgement, and opened it. Mark was standing there, pantsless, facing away from me, and all I’m seeing is what looks like cum falling onto the pages of a road atlas.

“Fuck! It’s just paint!”

“Then why no…”

“Pants are an unnecessary format forced on us by the clothing industry a thousand years ago, man.”

Mark thinks the record labels are secretly owned by Levi Strauss & Co.

“Okay, Mark. I’ll keep my pants on, thanks. Where is this…weaponry?”

“This way.”

He takes me to his bedroom. The walls have been covered with postcard-sized paintings. I pick one at random and it’s a painting of a machinegun. The caption reads: Very slow machinegun. Fires a baby once every nine months, until its husband beats it to death.