ALL THE MEN RISE UP ALL THE BROTHERS RISE UP ANSWER THE BATTLE CALL TRACK THE CUNTS WHO COME ON THIS SITES TO THEIR HOMES LET THEM THINK TWICE ABOUT HW MUCH THEIR CUNTS CAN BLEED I HAVE FORMED A HUGE ARMY OF FRIENDS AROUND THE WORLD WE ARE GOING TO DESTROY THESE CUNTS IN A SHORT PERIOD OF TIME! ALL THE MEN START RECRUITING OTHER BROTHERS AROUND THE WORLD YOUR FRIENDS FAMILY WORKMATES THE TIME IS NOW! THE EARTH WILL BLOOD WHEN WE MAKE THESE FUCKING CUNT WHORES BLEED STABBING VICIOUSLY THERE’S NO STOPPING US CUNTS! EVERYTHING YOU CAN SEE WITH YOUR EYES BELONG TO MEN SO TAKE IT BACK! FIGHT NOW! STAND UP NOW! STRIKE NOW! 3 BILLION MEN HUNTING YOU CUNTS DOWN WHERE CAN YOU RUN WHERE CAN YOU HIDE! CHAINSAW RIPPING YOUR CUNTS OPEN FOR ALL THE BILLIONS OF BABIES ABORTED! ALL CUNTS WILL PAY!
MALE SUPREMACY NOW!!

just sayin.

A woman’s ability to draw us into a world of death and hell is not unlike the Venus’s-flytrap that lures and captures flies. In the same way the grizzly bear is drawn to honey and the great white shark is drawn to human flesh, men are but clay that women can mold into any shape they want. This is something I cannot stand. Women are the ultimate puppeteers, and men are the Pinocchios of the world.

It is because of this that I hate most women. I also hate their arrogance, their desire to show every part of their anatomy to entice us, their erratic moods, their periods, their need to ridicule the male and their general drive to castrate, critique and control us.

That said, when I go down on a woman—which I have been doing for 56 years—I always have the same game plan. I close my eyes because I do not want to look at the vile, jagged hunks of flesh that protrude out of her hole. Any orifice of the human body that has the temerity to be on a calendar schedule and bleed monthly is no different from prostate cancer or toes afflicted with athlete’s foot. Pussy is akin to a stinking armpit, so I close my eyes to avoid seeing a gaping, hair-filled opening.

I despise women because when trying to give one an orgasm, it’s like climbing Mount Everest. Her clit plays hide-and-seek with your tongue, and your attempt to get her off is like being in a war zone, dodging the friendly fire of a tired jaw and pubic hair in your teeth. Compared to her pussy, her ass should be condemned to the ninth circle of hell. Her mouth is usually filled with yesterday’s food and the many bacteria that have set up colonies there. The only real value for her piehole is to receive the offering of your cock and to splatter the inside of her larynx with your cum. If you look carefully down a woman’s throat, you will see a little village of life with accordion players and a miniature Disneyland.

Women are not completely to blame. We, as men, carry some responsibility too. Men are in desperate need of pussy based on our genetic makeup. We are witless, mindless and merely a product of biology. Our cocks are like boats in a storm seeking a safe harbor of warm slit. Women who have the depth and sensitivity of a pincushion take advantage of the man’s weakness, need and drive. This is merely an illusion and proves how wonderful women are at creating magic. Magicians use apparatus to create illusion. Women use sexual apparatus to ensnare us. I hate them because of their machinations and their very success in manipulating me to further their own selfish ends.

Why would I have married and given them all my money and homes were it not for my fantasy that they would make me happy, care for me and fulfill my needs? Was that ten-second ejaculation and 50-second blowjob worth the price I paid with my worldly riches?

Women do not need us as much because to them we are mere figments of their imagination. We are like a plaything that they want to strip bare before moving on. They do not take us seriously and only value our possessions. Look at me now—no money and no sex.

Another reason for my hatred is arguments. Men argue to make a point, whereas a woman argues to retain her power and mastery of his libido. The pussy that produced us is the same hole that owns us. A smart male baby would stay inside the womb and enjoy the warmth and security that it offers. But the male deludes himself, caveman that he is, and seeks to slay dinosaurs while discovering and conquering new worlds. And to do this, he leaves the mother’s pussy.

The real reason I hate women is if you look between their legs, you don’t see a masculine and virile edifice. What you see is something that looks like the bloody wound from an ax. The woman’s hatred for us is wrapped around her penis envy and her desire to be us. The woman is incomplete and filled with the jealously of man’s ability to lose himself in a football game.

All of my ex-wives and ex-girlfriends have been imbeciles and predators. They are the reason for my lot in life right now and the philosophies that I spew.

One wife was decades younger than me and had the brains of a tadpole. She was the worst cocksucker I ever had, although I did give her a few orgasms when I licked her clit. She was drawn to my power and sexual prowess, but when I went bankrupt, she abandoned me like weeds.

Another wife was an Irish cleaning woman. She stalked me on my TV show and was turned on by my fame. (Details of all these experiences, by the way, can be found in my autobiography—I, Goldstein—in stores now.) Although she blew me before the marriage, I suspect she was a lesbian. After the ceremony, we never had sex again. She got almost a million dollars.

The mother of my son was a schoolteacher who hated me because I was a pornographer—a philosophy she imparted to my son. She got several million dollars.

Wife two was a Pan Am flight attendant who was a class act and deserved better than the likes of me.

At age 27 I embarked on my Columbus-like voyage of hatred toward women with a cowlike, deformed quasi-human. Our three-year relationship was like a trip on the Titanic. When we fucked, her gigantic boobs crushed my head, which I did not like. I am not a boob man.

A recent example of my hatred and repulsion toward women takes place in my book, and it is about a woman named Venus, a high-priced call girl who worked for Heidi Fleiss. She was drop-dead gorgeous, started hooking at age 18 and could earn four to ten thousand dollars a week. Her greatest gift to me was that she would blow me for free on my birthday. I loved every crack and fold in her body, except that her tits were too big. Like she did with everything else in her life, she got carried away with implants.

When Ron Jeremy told her that I had written about her in my book and blog, she freaked out and called me. Venus screamed at me for revealing that she was a hooker, even though I didn’t mention her real name. I tried to explain that as a journalist, the truth means something and that a newsman either betrays his friends or himself. I made nothing up about her, but was merely a mirror reflecting her life as best as I could. Venus may be ashamed of selling sex for money, but she is like every wife in America who willingly trades her body for a home and comfortable life.

You have read all of my words of bile toward the deadly female of the species. But why have I not become a faggot and abandoned these hairy collections of refuse? I have always argued that it takes a real man to suck cock, so why do I even frequent the company of women? Having children is a minimal use of their womb, because they may have Frankenstein-like offspring.

But occasionally, one runs into a woman who is like a goddess. For me, that woman was a B-movie scream queen with petite toes, lovely breasts, delectable ass. Her scrumptious pussy made her far more desirable than any man could hope to be. Our relationship was predicated on honesty. On our first date, at my Los Angeles apartment, I gave her $200. And being a good Jew, I negotiated a better deal while we were engaged. My first load was $200, but if I could come more than that, I paid only $100 per shot. There was total honesty and integrity in the relationship. I always got to pop some sperm; she’d swallow every drop and thank me for my delicious Jew juice. And she got what she wanted—cash.

There is a famous parable about a scorpion riding a frog during a flood. In the middle of the flood the scorpion stings the frog, and they both drown. Before the frog dies, it croaks, “You fool, now both of us will die!” And the scorpion says, “I could not help myself; it is in my nature.” It is in a woman’s nature to crush, kill and destroy. It is also in my nature to hate. It’s a perfect match, really.

P.S. What I most love about HUSTLER Editorial Director Bruce David is that 34 years ago, when I introduced him to the world of porn, not only did he become Screw’s finest editor, but he was also the world’s ultimate misogynist. I was drawn to his reputation for throwing tiresome and aging girlfriends down eight flights of stairs. Bruce David was my Ted Williams and Babe Ruth without a bat. His disrespect and hatred for women were legendary in the men’s field. Today he is a crumpled shell of what he once was. His beautiful blond wife has neutered him, and she has trained Bruce to use his litter box without a whimper or even an offensive stink. He has been so emasculated that Larry Flynt’s next magazine, called Cocksucker, will be edited by Bruce.

Seventy-one-year-old Al Goldstein lives alone in Queens, New York. For more of the raconteur’s ravings, pick up his autobiography, I, Goldstein, or read his blog at Booble.com. Al can be contacted at AlvinGoldstein@gmail.com and is especially receptive to offers of food, work or pussy

And you are the perfect example of why, skank.

I don’t really get the point to Valentine’s Day. They’re not even positive of what the history of it really is. The only one I read was a guy named Valentine was imprisoned for helping the Christian army or something and fell in love with the jailer’s daughter. It involves love, but not fat baby angels with arrows (at least not the one I read).

Eh, I celebrate Valetine’s Day differently anyways. It’s more of a time of mourning than being given chocolate.