The Douchebag Bible Read Online Free PDF Page B

care. We're telling lies to each other and stroking our
    cocks all the while.
    Ted and I have made a connection. A real one. Sure, it's
    based on deception, but it's a mutual deception, a deception
    that we have both consented to. I jerk off to your lies, you jerk
    off to mine. That's what scientists call a symbiotic relationship.
    It's amazing how, in a world where people are so
    disconnected from one another, some of us can find true and
    meaningful (I'm tempted to say “loving”) connection in the
    most unlikely of places.
    You can rape my daughter if you want. Sure, I don't
    have a daughter and if I did there's no way in hell I'd let you
    so much as glance at her, but in this consequence free
    environment, feel free to exercise your demons on her. Slit her
    throat and fuck the wound if you want to. It doesn't matter.
    I'm not judging you. I'm jerking you.

    IT’S SMALL.
    GET OVER IT.

    People always feel the need to defend my penis from me, even
    when I’m not attacking it. All I have to do is mention that it is
    small and people will say, “I’m sure it’s just fine.”

    “I didn’t say it wasn’t fine. I just said it was small.”

    “It’s not small, I’m sure.”

    “No,” I insist, puzzled that they would argue with me
    about a piece of my anatomy, “It is.”

    “It probably just looks small because you’re such a big
    guy.”

    “Well, that probably makes it look smaller, but even
    disregarding that, it’s small.”

    “Why are you so down on yourself?” they ask.

    “I’m not,” I always explain at that point. “I don’t have
    anything against my penis, but the fact is that it is a small
    penis. Any shame I might have about that I lost after getting
    laid a few times and realizing that it wasn’t the end of the
    world.”

    A girl told me a story once. She told me that she was
    once lying naked in bed, legs spread apart, waiting for some
    guy she had just met to come in and fuck her. He entered the
    room, looked down at her, and started undressing. But at that
    last crucial moment, the revelation of what he was packing, he
    unveiled a miniscule member, probably roughly the size of
    mine, and she closed her legs instantly and left him standing
    there to wallow in his woe.

    I told her, “You’re lucky it wasn’t me. I’d have busted
    your fucking nose.”

    So maybe I am still a little sensitive about it.
    But hey, it’s easier to convince chicks to do anal.

    ILL LOGIC

    I am not easily bored. I'm very content with tranquility,
    because my mind is a circus freak show of deformed demons
    and holy holes. I can sit for hours in what is perceived as
    aloofness, when in reality, or rather, out of reality, I am
    moving at a million miles a second, reveling in my genius and
    lamenting my idiocy. I sit there with a blank expression on my
    face—the world scarcely pays attention. They have no idea
    that I am in another place; a place where the beauty of
    ugliness is understood completely and so am I. In this
    wonderful, horrible world, I am an all-powerful god, whose
    every perversion is immediately fulfilled. I reign over the
    populace like the eidolon named night from Edgar Allen Poe's
    poem, Dream-land . I suppose that is exactly what the world of
    my thoughts is: a dream-land.
    The real world finds me in an infinitely less enjoyable
    position. I am a spineless coward, insecure in myself and
    unable to muster the will to take any step towards improving
    the quality of my existence. Despite the fact that I am blessed
    with luxuries that most don't have, I am apathetic. Even in
    the face of adversity, I remain unfazed and uncaring. I neglect
    my hygiene to the point of disgusting those around me. I am
    infatuated with a pathetic fantasy world that is obviously a
    product of my shallow, meaningless life. Dream-land is
    basically a necessary antithesis of reality—artificial flavoring
    if you will.
    I take some (but not much) comfort in the knowledge
    that I am at least intelligent enough