Translation: "My life has been such an unmitigated disaster that even now, at the age of only 28, I wish I could do EVERTHING over again, including, by the way, my choice of parents and, in particular, my gene pool. I'll start at the bottom and work my way up.

My feet -- within just minutes of showering, they smell horribly, a combination of body odor/ass/unbathed crotch. If I kick off my shoes in a restaurant, it isn't long before tables all around me are complaining to the owner that the toilets are backed up....someone must have puked....there is a rotten piece of catfish in the kitchen.

My thighs -- fat, hairy, hideously pasty white because if I go out in the sun for even ten minutes they get burnt to a crisp.

My penis -- short, skinny, with a lumpy purplish varicose-style vein running up its full length, about two inches, and, tragically, set in such an abundance of wiry, jet black pubic hair that at times it's almost completely hidden in the jungle of pubes.

My chest -- sunken, hairless, pale as my thighs, with oddly protruding extremely brown nipples that look strikingly like chocolate kisses.

My face -- chinless, my friends, some friends, say I have a chneck -- ha ha, very funny, combination chin/neck. My eyes are too close together, my nose broad and bulbous, my lips thin and pale, my forehead long like the guy on the Munsters, and my hair, at 28, thin, whispy, and falling out in bushels.

My brain -- slow, grinding, suspicious. If I get a joke at all, it's when the others are already well onto other topics. I fear everybody is talking about me, not saying nice things at all, and I imagine people on the other side of the room are laughing behind my back. I did terribly in high school, flunked out of several colleges, and finally got a degree as a phys ed teacher from a school called East Wyoming School of Physicality and Sports. I never even looked to see if it was accredited.

My job -- My degree was just about useless, and the only gig I could land was doing the laundry for a semi-pro men's softball team. The only thing that smells worse than my feet is the sodden pile of sweat-soaked jocks, and socks, and filthy uniforms that I have to launder, dry and iron after every game.

My folks -- Mom and Dad are divorced. Dad married a hot little piece of trailer trash with whom he already has five kids under the age of 8. So there goes any money I had any hope of inheriting. And Mom? Mom swelled up to about 350 pounds and then had a stroke. And since I'm the only one of my siblings who lives in the area, and I can't really afford of a place on my own, I've got to live with her. Which means shopping for her, feeding her, and changing her diapers when she pisses and shits her pants. Let me tell you, friend, changing your 350 pound mom's shit-filled diaper has to be just about the worst thing God has invented. I mean if there is a hell, forget the fire and brimstone. I'm sure what you do all day is change the feces coated Depends of the elderly and fat.

My lovelife -- nada. zilch. me a virgin. big jerker offer. even prostitutes refuse to have sex with me.

Bad, huh? But you know what, if I'm sitting around in a bar, shit-faced among a bunch of other drunken slobs, not one of us going anywhere and knowing it in our bones, and one guy lifts his glass and says, "You know, fellas, I'm so fucking happy sitting here with a bunch of good buddies, that even if I had it to do all over again, I wouldn't change a thing," I lift my glass, toast the guy, and say with all sincerity, "Neither would I, pal, neither would I."


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