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Zen and the Art of Dating Assholes

Dear Murray

I met the nicest guy, and all I can think about is “oh, how cute. He won’t last long.” What is wrong with me?!

I really don’t want the cock. I just want someone to be nice to me. (sigh)
–Your Fav Career Gal

PS Well, the cock MIGHT be nice, I just dunno if I want it hanging around too long (no pun intended, I assure you)

Whoever said nice guys don’t win hasn’t been fucking reading Dear Murray lately. The nice guys are getting ALL the fuckin action up in this place. Are you people taking notes? MURRAY IS A NICE GUY, TOO! Can’t ya fucking tell? And I’m getting freaky more than R. Kelly at a middle school dance.

The problem is this. I hear women tell me all the fucking time “I want a guy to treat me nice. I’m tired of so-and-so doing this-and-that.” Shut the fuck up already. If you’re tired of mothafuckas treating you like shit, dump the fucker already. It’s that fucking easy. It’s much easier to dump that motherfucker than to remove my boot tread from your cheek. Because if you keep whining to me about it, that’s what’s gonna fucking happen. It’s a simple equation. If you date an asshole, and he continues to be an asshole, and you stay, then YOU LIKE ASSHOLES. ACCEPT IT. Take yoga if you have to in order to deal with it. BECOME ONE with the universe of being an asshole-lover.

Oh, right. Nice guys. Just tell the motherfucker up front. It’s really not hard to say “i can’t deal with anything serious.” “I just wanna hang out and have sex.” Shit like that is golden. Trying to interpret signs and actions is fucking annoying. When you keep silent out of trying to spare someone’s feelings, you’re fucking up yourself and the other person. I guarantee if you tell him exactly what’s up, he will go for it in a fucking heartbeat.

Now leave me the fuck alone.

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Dear Murray

Dear Murray a tasty, tasty bitch beloved and feared by hordes of basement-dwelling illiterati and their fierce antagonists, the Grammar Nazis. He single-handedly turned the webcam whorefest of Myspace into a lively commerce of ideas, including whether or not the TUBGIRL photo will ever be topped as a postmodern expression of the inexpressible. According to web historians, he has inspired more photoshop projects and syphilis jokes than Britney Spears (who he has been repeatedly linked romantically to). He is also rumoured to be the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby, a disciple of Cliff Yablonski, and the second gunman on the grassy knoll. Although he could not be reached for comment, he reportedly resides in or near the tent cities along the LA River Basin, third right after the walrus sunning station.

He has vehemently denied all charges that he is any any way responsible for that rash your wife claims "is from the heat".

His primary function is doling out advice; the inspiration sprang from an endless and eventually dull repetition of fucktards failed to heed his words.

A secondary result is a dysfunctional family "round table" of people who contribute innumerable one-liners and personal experiences, rarely related in any way to the actual question.

It is estimated that tens of thousands of readers have "LOL'd" approximately 5,395,645,694,167,467,105 times, with the toll expected to rise.

He is immune to kryptonite, chlamydia, and brainwashing.

Wikipedia has banned PENCILTITS's entry, debating the relevance of his tasty bitchiness.