By Jason Tanamor.

When I was a kid, I watched a movie on HBO after my parents went to sleep. My brother and I sat on our shag bedroom carpet and watched, with our exploded eyes, this movie called "Night Patrol." It was about the third shift police force and its adventures rolling the graveyard. It was funny. It was stupid. And it had a woman with boobs the size of Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons. I swear one of them was Yogi Bear. He was smarter than the average bear, AND he had humongous boobs.

Sitting there in my football themed pajamas, a bulge developed inside my pants. Yep, it was my pee pee. And it was telling me to play with it. Well, not really. I didn't know what it was. So, like any other kid with a kick stand protruding from his waist, I played it like a joystick. Like many games I've played before, I found myself yanking my joystick until the inevitable happened. You can probably guess what that was. Let's just say, I'm glad my pajamas' father wasn't calling my father and saying that his daughter was pregnant.

This was a life changing moment for me. And needless to say, I became a masturbator. I masturbated all the time. In the shower was my safe zone. Using conditioner as a lubricant, by the end of it I didn't know what was conditioner and what was population paste. Although I became a pro at it, it seemed to have aged me. Or maybe that was my skin wrinkling from being in water for so long.

Whatever it was, I needed more. That "more" came in the form of masturbating to anything that resembled a hole. Rolled up carpet. The area between the couch cushions. Wet cement (be careful with this one because you have to get in and out before your pee pee gets stuck next to some boy's initials – R.J. was here, and then a guy who looks as if he's ramming his pee pee into a rock).

When that got old, and old I mean when there wasn't a hole (wait, there's a door with a knob missing) I went on to other things – extreme masturbating.

Putting toothpaste on my dick until it burned. Then beating it, it's orgasmic. No, seriously. AND, it makes it whiter (which is funny if you know that I'm Asian). My pee pee has never had a cavity.

Rub your hands together really fast until they heat up and then masturbate. Hot damn! Spicy masturbation.

Masturbate holding a magnifying glass over your pee pee. It's like you're hung like a horse instead of being hung like a hangnail. Just don't do it over the sun. Ouch! Burnt like ants.

And the methods of all methods. Taking a tube sock, filling it with jelly (any flavor will do), putting it in the microwave for a minute and then masturbating with it. It's like a grape vagina.

The only downfall to this is, walking down Wal-Mart with tube socks and jars of jelly when you need to restock your inventory. When you see the items go down the conveyor belt, the excuses start forming in your mind. "They're for my kid at camp. He really loves jelly and socks."

After this got old (extreme masturbating), and the holes in everyday life began to close, masturbating became passe. I finally stopped. Because of this. And the fact that there's a product out there called Hamburger Helper, whose mascot is a talking hand, I figured that had to be the result of a chronic masturbator because it looks as if one of 40,000 sperm grabbed hold of a skin pore on a man's hand and nine months later, an incestual hand offspring came out because this freakish Hamburger Helper only has three fingers and a thumb. Till this day, if I have to eat Hamburger Helper, I make my wife throw away the box because who knows, that Hamburger Helper could have been one of mine. I'd hate to hear, from the garbage, a voice yelling, "Papa!" I'll be damned if I have to give up my cheeseburger mac.


Jason Tanamor is the Editor of Zoiks! Online magazine. Visit it at: http//