A Christmas Carol.

    Ebeneezer Scrooge was woken by a strange noise in the middle of the night. Ebeneezer was in his thirties, still handsome, and an incorrigible womanizer, but that night he felt more lonely than ever. It was probably because he was alone, he thought, quite correctly. It was already Christmas of 1843 and he hadn't found a single woman to keep him company on this cold night. He felt that something was missing from his life, but he didn't know exactly what it was. He had probably forgotten to buy milk again.
    The noise continued. It sounded like someone was knocking on the door downstairs. Ebeneezer slowly wore his gown and walked down the stairs. Opening the door, he saw a woman he thought looked familiar, but he couldn't quite remember where he knew her from.
-"Mom?" he said.
-"What? No, I'm the chick of Christmas Past!".
Ebeneezer remembered where he knew her from. It was the woman he was with last Christmas. A few hundred women later, it was obviously hard for Ebeneezer to remember her, let alone her name. Suddenly, all the good times he had spent with her came to his mind. One, namely, because he had only spent one night with her. It was quite good though, because she had a bountiful booty. Ebeneezer wondered what she wanted.
-"What do you want?" he wondered.
-"Ebeneezer, I am two months pregnant!" she exclaimed.
-"Oh, that is great..." he mumbled.
-"Ebeneezer, THE CHILD IS YOURS!" she said, passionately.
-"IS NOT!"
-"IS TOO!"
-"Wtf ho, dontcha be startin shit on my porch, you know I haven't tapped yo ass in a year."
-"Oh... I hadn't thought of that... I guess you're right. I better go find out who the father is, then. Bye!" she said, and left.
    Ebeneezer went back to his bedroom to try and get some sleep, but he couldn't. The thought of that woman kept tormenting him, and reminding him how good his life used to be, and how sad it had become. He got that empty feeling again. "I have to buy milk first thing tomorrow morning," he thought.
    Just as he started to fall asleep, another noise woke him up. Someone was knocking on the door again. Ebeneezer wore his gown again, noticing for the first time that gowns were a bit gay, went down the stairs and opened the door, only to find a beautiful woman staring at him. He immediately found himself wondering who she was and what she wanted at that time of the night.
-"Who are you and what do you want at this time of the night?" he asked.
-"I am the chick of Christmas Present," she replied. "My name is Maya and I want to have the sex with you, you handsome man."
Ebeneezer felt all happy down there in his pee-pee. He found Maya very hot.
-"I find you very hot." he said, not too surprisingly.
-"Well then, let's go to your bedroom."
-"Let's."
They went to his bedroom and had the greatest sex ever. For me, anyway. I am a bit jealous of him. After mating, Ebeneezer lit a joint and stared at the ceiling mirror, still feeling that same, familiar, haunting, empty feeling he always felt. He spread some cocaine on Maya's ass and snorted it, and he felt a bit better. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep only to wake an hour later and find her gone, together with all his cocaine stash and like a few thousand quid cash. He felt quite devastated. "I feel quite devastated," he thought. That Christmas was not going to be any better than all the previous ones, it seemed.
    Suddenly, there was another knock on the door. Ebeneezer wondered whether his house was mistaken for a brothel. "What the hell, this is not a whorehouse, fuck," he thought. Nevertheless, he slowly proceeded down the stairs and to the door, to find Christmas Carol outside. Christmas Carol was the local tramp, every night with another man. "We are quite alike, in that respect," Ebeneezer thought. He had had her at least thirty times that year already, and although she looked great, with perky breasts and an ass that wouldn't quit, he was starting to get tired of sex.
-"Ebeneezer, I am in love with you." she said.
-"Oh Carol, that is very unexpected!" he exclaimed. He suddenly realised that that empty feeling was not caused by the lack of milk, but the lack of a wife. He was not getting any younger, and he needed to settle down. Plus, Carol was like eighteen and muchly hot. He was in a quandary, though, because it might not be very nice to get married to a tramp. He wondered if she would stop sleeping with other men if he married her.
-"Will you stop sleeping with other men if I marry you?"
-"Oh yes, Ebeneezer! I will do anything to be with you!" Her promise looked candid, and Ebeneezer decided he would turn his life around, forget his old ways, and forever commit hisself to this chick of Christmas Future.
We would like to wish everyone merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, krazy Kwanzaa, or whatever. And if a hot 18-year old chick comes to your doorstep and wants to marry you, I'd accept. It's not like you're going to get married with that face, anyway.

Paragraphs.

Just recently, some comments reached my perfectly perfect ears about my not using paragraphs. People told me my posts look like one big chunk of text and they just skip over it. To this, I reply:
FUCK YOU.
How is that for a paragraph?
First of all, I DO use paragraphs, I just don't leave three million blank fucking lines between them. A post looks like one post, not like three thousand, pay attention. Secondly, WHAT THE FUCK. I can understand it being tiring or whatever when you have only learned how to read yesterday, but to skip over an overly magnificent post just because there are not many blank lines to help you follow the trail of characters while reading is just retarded. I should post each post twice, a normal one and one with spaces between every characters and many many blank lines between each line. By the way, if you are reading this you are probably not one of those people, since this post DOES NOT HAVE BLANK LINES BETWEEN PARAGRAPHS. Let me capture the other peoples' attention.
FUCK YOU, READ THIS SHIT, DON'T SKIP OVER IT!
Now that I have everyone's attention, I must urge those of you who haven't read the post to scroll up, it contains many delicious profanities. To scroll up, move the mouse pointer to the upper right corner of the window, over the up arrow, and click on it a few times. Be careful or you might miss it, because the up arrow button does not contain clearly separated paragraphs.
I love you.

Marketing.

Have you ever watched an ad on TV and thought "What the hell were these guys thinking?". I don't mean that the ad was horrible or terrible or bad, just dumb. For example, I was watching a Hugo Boss ad the other day, in which there is the perfume bottle on a rock or something and a young man tries to pick it up, but he can't. Then a mature man tries to pick it up, but he also fails. Lastly, a somewhat middle-aged man goes to pick it up, succeeds, and perfumes himself. Following this, a compelling voice booms "Baldessarini by Hugo Boss. Separates the men from the boys."
Sure, the ad is nice and the directing is great and all professional-looking, but do they really expect middle aged men to jump up from their barkaloungers as soon as they see it and, with a gleam in their eye, proudly exclaim "I must purchase Baldessarini by Hugo Boss IMMEDIATELY! I want to be separated from the boys!"? I bet noone did, NOT ONE! I mean, "Baldessarini. Hides the foul smell of fish." would be much catchier. I know that many older men would think "Wow! Now I can finally stop smelling like fish and smell all flowery-like!".
But, to give credit where it is due, there are some great ads. Intense, also by Hugo Boss, features the superhot supermodel superDaniela Urzi who, by the way, is superhot. The ad is generally great and its song, Tanga - Intense (Soulcleansing), is superb.
The best ad of all time, however, was the Axe one, where a chick wore her boyfriend's Axe because she couldn't find hers and then all sorts of hot chicks started hitting on her only because of all the Axe. That ad made me want to go buy Axe RIGHT AWAY, but I didn't, but I didn't have any money and I smell like roses anyway. That was sheer genius though.
Bored. Another mediocre post. Oh well, I'll go stare at Daniela now.

Shirts.

Hello dear readers! Today's post is somewhat special (I mean more special than all the other posts), since it is about one of our readers, who ACTUALLY BOUGHT one of our shirts (why are the rest of you lazy bastards not buying our shirts? Buy lots of them).

This is a picture of him brandishing (or wearing, I can't remember the order I put the pictures in) his new favorite T-shirt. The T-shirt elegantly depicts a person selling a gourouni in the agora and a gallo buying it.

This picture is something about the shirt also, there is really no hope for me to remember it, so let's pretend this is the one where the shirt's back is displayed. The proud owner of this T-shirt (who has had the great honour of knowing me) is proudly displaying the proud address of this site on the back of his shirt, proudly. He is clearly very proud of it, because now everyone who sees the shirt will go like this (sample conversation follows):

Some guy in a bar:
"Wow, look at that dude over there. He is wearing a Porocrom T-shirt, therefore he must be cool. I must pay homage to him. I will go prostrate myself before him right now." The guy then proceeds to become a slave of the wearer of the T-shirt for the rest of his life.

Another sample conversation illustrates colourfully what happens when women look at the shirt:
Hot chick in club #1:
"Wow, look at that dude. He is wearing a funny and interesting T-shirt. He looks like someone I would like to spank me. I shall take two of my hot friends and go over there and talk to him."
There you have it, undeniable proof that the sex-appeal of our shirts is almost supernatural. Why have you not got one yet? (Hint: if you already have one, buy another one and wear them one on top of the other to double the effect. The shirts can be stacked infinitely for maximum effect).

This is a picture where we will pretend he is displaying the picture on the shirt. This picture is clearly a work of art from a world-famous artist (me) and everyone wearing it, looking at it, or being in the same city as it must now enjoy life knowing that they have been blessed with one of the greatest honours ever.
Jeff C. (the owner of the shirt) will now be world-famous, since everyone who looks at the address in the back will no doubt visit the site and all the hot women will want to date him. (Girls, his phone number is 555-HOTT).
Lastly, I will bring to your attention some REAL stories from REAL people who have REALLY bought our REAL T-shirts.
Jeff C. bought our T-shirt and said:
"This is the best T-shirt ever. It is almost like second skin to me. When I wear it I am endowed with superpowers and my penis grows ten inches. My life has improved dramatically since I have purchased this T-shirt. I used to be a virgin, but now I have sex three times a day with two different women every day, and the ratio keeps rising. I got a promotion and now I am the CEO of Microsoft in Gambia, and I am running for president in the next US elections."
Mary B. didn't buy our T-shirt and she died a few hours later by a flock of wild bulls that stampeded through her house in midtown N.Y.
Jenny G. bought our T-shirt and her blind husband regained his sight just to look at the shirt, and when he did, he was instantly cured of cholera, dysentery, the bubonic plague, tooth decay and chronic impotence. Jenny said "Thank you for this, Porocrom!".
I could sit here and enumerate all the succes stories of people who have bought our shirt, but since only one has bought one, I would have to make them all up. I could also tell you of all the people that died, became vegetables or got married to the gorgeous and not at all unsightly Bette Davis because they wouldn't buy our shirts, but I am tired of writing. Bye.

P.S. YOU CAN BUY OUR T-SHIRTS USING THE LINKS ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THIS PAGE.

Women (revisited).

Riddle me this: Why do women have to make it utterly and painfully clear that they absolutely will not, never-ever, not-if-every-man-on-earth-dies-except-you, have sex with you? You're hanging out with your friends (women included), and you (or someone, anyway) makes a completely harmless joke about you and the woman having sex. The woman always says something like "not in your lifetime". Why do they say that? Do they think that responding to the joke equals having slept with the person, and that will label them as easy?
It is very, VERY annoying when they do that, since the entire fun of hanging out with girls is the innuendoes (and sometimes the sex), and it's good fun anyway. What is it, girls, do you feel superior by doing that to someone? Does it make you feel powerful that someone made a joke about you? Well, it's mean, and I couldn't bring myself to do that to a woman. By the way, it's not about actually having sex. 99% of the time, I'm not even attracted to the girl I joke with. It's also not about actually not wanting to have sex, I have had it from women that were much less attractive than me (yes, they were THAT ugly). Also, most of the time it's not a subtle dismissal. It is an EARTH-SHAKING ROAR that shouts "YOU ARE DISGUSTING AND I AM NOT BLIND, I AM JUST WEARING THESE EYEPATCHES TO AVOID LOOKING AT YOU" right in your ear.
This entry is deliberately short (well, not deliberately, I ran all out of anger). Expect better posts later.
And, by the way, ladies, a hint: When guys joke about sex, they're only half-kidding, so if you want all the copulation, take it half-seriously.