Just a friendly game of Culture shock

Historically I've lived my life as a pretty paranoid person, wearing three condoms if a women who's three orifices I'm about to savagely enter even belts out the subtlest of coughs, assaulting that woman with medical history inquiries if she so much as develops an innocent cold sore months after our sole sexual encounter - and even if I know that she wasn't a virgin when I met her, if she happens to be with someone else while we are "seeing" each other I will openly tell her how "tainted" she is while receiving blow-jobs wearing the thickest prophylactic known to man. So you can imagine how obsessed I've been recently, looking around at all my friends who decided to actual procreate with their sperm instead of using it to write their names in cursive on a woman's back or wipe in on foreign curtains ala me - the fact that I've never had a hand in producing another chubby degenerate with anger issues has started to worry me as of late. Granted, I've never purposely tried to inject my demon-seed inside of some low expectation having woman who finds my brand of bullshit sexy - but how many births are actually planned nowadays, so the fact that I don't have any "..my first child was conceived when I raw-dogged this Guatemalan maid named Marisol" stories had me thinking that my caramel colored .22 was shooting nothing but blanks. So a trip to my doctor, an inappropriate "if you can't give me a hand-job, can you at least whisper 'You're the greatest writer ever!" in my ear while I beat off" comment to a nurse, and a lengthy wait later - I was pleasantly informed that my disgruntled tadpoles were all swimming vigorously upstream. When I got home that night, thinking about the childless universe in which I live in and openly saying to myself "Man, I really gotta stop fucking chicks in the ass!" - thats when I was surprised by a phone call from Shawn, a kid that I've always regarded as a surrogate son.

Shawn is the son of my friend Derek, and ever since that 11th grade year where I saw my boy juggle being a teenage father with trigonometry with ease - I can proudly say that I've had a hand in Shawn's development. Granted, its been a rather small role since Derek didn't want his only child being negatively influenced by the likes of a guy who once punched a priest in the throat and once considered having the Spanish word "negocio" tattooed on my cock just so when a woman looks at it and asks for a definition during foreplay I can arrogantly nod and say "Baby, it means "Business". But over the years I have schooled Shawn on what real Hip Hop is, the proper way to snap someones neck, and 34 ways to kill a man with a pair of chopsticks if his life ever happens to be threatened while eating raw fish and downing Sapporo - rather useful tools that every young man needs as he navigates the turbulent waters of life. But I never handed down any fatherly advice though, he already had a great father - I'm damaged goods man, I'm not sure if I'd even be able to get through passing along some Yoda-like life lesson to him without giggling like a school girl based on the source of said "wisdom".

So you can imagine my utter surprise when Shawn, feeling overwhelmed by being thousands of miles away from home and going through his first semester of college, took it upon himself to reach out to your favorite pre-ejaculating writer for some advice - specifically to ask me about the times that I've experienced Culture Shock. At the time my mind was blank, I mean, I consoled the young brother the best way I knew how - telling him that he should embrace new experiences, that he will get settled in before he knows it, and since the area in which he lives is heavily populated with a certain ethnic group I reiterated one of the last things my father ever said to me as he lay on his death bed: "Asian Pussy is to die for" But at the time I couldn't come up with any examples of times that I felt out of my element, until now - so since Shawn reads this online drivel that I call a blog, this is for you kid.

Attending Public School: There are certain professions that I shouldn't even attempt, like being a pornographic actor - an unimpressive penis, giggling co-stars, and 53 second sex scenes don't really add up to noteworthy masturbatory material. I could never be a cop, I'm too impatient and paranoid - the mass amounts of people that I'd shoot in the ass for simply reaching for their wallets or coming out of their mouth wrong would keep me in litigation for a decade. Also, I could never be a gangster rapper - sure, there are people who have witnessed me administering senseless acts of violence, and my vivid imagination could make a fictitious mass murder by the hands of yours truly sound like the absolute gospel over a DJ Premier track. But the main reason that I could never be a gangster rapper is because your boy, Humanity F Critic, attended private schools from Kindergarten to 6th grade - St. Gregory's Catholic School for a short time before moving on to the very urban sounding "Virginia Beach Country Day School". Not for nothing but I personally enjoyed the smaller class sizes, the one on one attention that your educators gave you - and ever since my days at St Gregory's, I can't tell you how many chicks I've made wear plaid dresses before giving them "communion". That being said, when 7th grade came around and my parents forced me to attend the public junior high school with all the other peasants - it felt as if I had literally walked out of a day spa and into a violent firefight in the streets of Fallujah. Multiple classrooms? School Bells? A Cafeteria? Latchkey kids of the female persuasion offering me head after school? This is embarrassing to admit, but the abrupt change of scenery stressed me out something terrible - so much in fact that whenever I'm out with my friend Gary and pull some tough guy "We can go outside and discuss it if you want motherfucker" spiel, he always cools me out by putting his hand on my shoulder while calmly saying "7th grade man, 7th grade".

Dating a woman 12 years my senior: I've talked about this before and I don't know if this is exactly culture shock, but during my senior year of High School the daughter of one of my parents friends came to stay with us for a little while - a nova scotian beauty named Sherry who was 29 years old at the time. You know what, I'm not going to journalistically dress this up since you already know that before long my 17 year old ass was trying to pevically see what her small intestines felt like - to say that she turned me out would be a gross understatement akin to saying that Amy Winehouse is a social drinker. I mean, I went from fire starting grind sessions and the occasional hand-job from under-developed 17 year old girls to waking up with my private parts being moisturized - its kind of like going in to get your breaks changed and the mechanic puts in a new engine for the same price, Thanks Buddy! Even though my mother would still find and decapitate her if she ever found out, and I can't say that it was molestation since I was 17 and a willing participant - but at the time, her "putting it on me" caused a brother to almost have a nervous breakdown. I fist-fought, attempted to stab, and slashed the tires of any suitor of hers who even attempted to enter my residence - looking back, the mere fact that my family was oblivious to our affair still blows my mind. So when she moved out of our house I was crushed, yes I was whipped, but more importantly I had to resort back to fucking girls with standards and gag reflexes - it was as if I was an All-Star Baseball star who just got shipped back to the minor leagues.

Sidebar: To this day, whenever I'm around a woman who wears her brand of perfume - my left hand starts to shake and I begin to stare off into space.