Your Daily Mung

ZuG Jerk-Off-A-Thon Introduction

2010-09-03T14:25:00.005-04:00

Hilter Kicks Off Film Festival @ ZuG15

2010-08-03T14:42:00.001-04:00

Hitler Fumes Over Zug 15

2010-06-11T11:25:00.004-04:00

Make sure to select German as the language to see the subtitles. Yes another way the Germans are fucking with the Jews.

Enjoy!

Severe Earthquake Warning For California

2010-06-11T09:35:00.000-04:00

Telephone poles may fall down.

You have been warned.

Cooking with Merrill

2010-06-11T08:44:00.000-04:00

Merrill Howard Kalin - Cooking with Retards - Click here for more home videos

R.I.P.

Hitler Fumes Over ZuG Changes

2010-02-18T11:05:00.004-05:00

The Adventure of Flat Stanley - Part 1

2009-05-20T20:48:00.002-04:00

The innocence of children, as illustrated in the ~~black markets of Cambodia~~ Flat Stanley Project, tells the story of a cardboard cutout that travels around the world and is documented through photography. My niece took a moment out of her busy day (i.e. eating glue) to create a manila folder mongoloid and asked me to document the adventures for her class. I was honored that she would put her faith in me and I promised that Stanley would see things that no other child could possibly imagine. My only task was to report on the adventure and send the final pictures and a written adventure log to her 1st grade teacher.

As luck would have it, I was poised for a trip to Austin for business. I packed up my bag, buckled the little guy into his seat and we were off on our first adventure.

Stanley was very well behaved on the plane and enjoyed the
Bat Bridge and getting the lay of the land when we first arrived. But, as the night started to progress, Stanley started to change.

After I got out of the shower I noticed that something was not right.

Stanley had cleaned up his C.H.U.D look and dressed in suave business attire. I also caught him ordering some adult feature films, but decided to look the other way and get ready for the night ahead.

We hit the town and went bar hopping on our first night, but I lost track of him. The last I remember, we were taking shots of Patron and dancing with some fine bitches at "Maggie Mae's" . I had a little too much to drink myself and blacked out back in the hotel room.

I awoke the next morning frantically looking for Stanley when I stumbled upon him in the bathroom. The only thing I could do was look in horror as I reviewed the pictures he had taken with my digital camera.

I couldn't believe what I had seen and before I had time to berate him for his behavior he did the unthinkable. I was shocked he had finished the 8-ball ~~and didn't even save me a little~~. He then let me know I should call him Crack Stanley,as that was his preferred party persona, and he winked at me.

I panicked, folded him up, and let him detox in my suitcase until the conference was over and we headed back to New York. I had several trips scheduled for this adventure and I crossed my fingers that he would straighten up, even if it meant an intervention.

Little did I know that this was the beginning of the end for poor Crack Stanley.

Stay tuned...

5 Things The Single Guy Takes For Granted

2009-04-17T16:04:00.001-04:00

Let’s face it: If I weren’t married I would be all over that shit!

Seriously, like a disgruntled immigrant in Binghamton, I would set my sights on some bitches, block them in and just unload all over the place.

So, for all the jealous singles, here are a few things to keep in mind the next time you are bitching about being lonely.

1) Insomnia – I haven’t had a full night sleep since my wife annexed the bed. This has less to do with the twelve inches of fetal-ball space I am allowed, as much as the subtle waft of fecal matter that forms over the course of the evening. I am not really sure how that smell of morning breath manages to travel through thirteen throw pillows. But the two of us wake up every morning and pass each other toilet paper as a sign of communal disgust.

Ever wonder what it is like to live in New Jersey? Just get married and you can say, with all honesty, that you travel through Newark every night. If your soul mate happens to snore or have Restless Leg Syndrome, you should just kill yourself now.

2) Same pussy

or worse, same cock.

Marriage is like having a television with only one channel, and it’s the Bass Fishing Network.

The single person can wake up to every morning to a different face (and different genitalia). Hell, you can find someone with both sets of genitals and really make it a Blockbuster night.

Enjoy the 1000 channels of satellite television while you can, we will just sit back and pray for a violent lure accident or Bass Fishing after dark (NSFW).

3) Fitness - When you’re married, there is no reason to even try and be fit. What was once a beautiful dance of love, turns into a Manatee wrestling match. The sex might be hotter when you are hitched, but it's mainly due to suffocation.

4) The Private Party - Let’s face it, sometimes the best party is a party of one. I know Chris Rock did a great bit on this, but there is nothing like closing the door and knowing that no one is going to walk in on you during the best part of the tranny-midget-amputee porn. It is also a real buzz kill to cut down the noose before you have adequately stained the drapes.

When you are single, you can enjoy deviance without the messy clean-up. You can actually just let the load sit there and save the ShamWow for those tough to clean hooker blood stains. Now that is freedom!

And lastly…

5) Silence is golden - Sure, silence might be maddening…but it’s not deafening. There is something to be said for some peace and fucking quiet. A lifetime of marriage is a lifetime of idle chatter.

Having a companion does have benefits, but too much of anything, including constant questions like "Did you take out the garbage?" or "Can you untie me now?" can make a person insane.

Single people, the grass is greener on the other side.

And by grass I mean vagina.

And by greener I mean full of STD's.

So go out there, have lots of sex and wear those diseases like a badge of honor! Be happy that you are not married and insane, because if I were single I would be all over that shit.

Secret Santa MacGyver <-- Best Ever!!!

2009-02-04T09:58:00.003-05:00

I just got home from my yearly holiday in Illinois and found a rather large package waiting for me at the doorstep. Since I had been gone for many days, I was nervous that my SS had sent me something alive which I would have to dispose of and deny ever receiving. However I was delighted when I found this:

I was so excited that my SS got me a Santa of my own that I actually felt all the coupons fall out of my pocket and the conversion take place right on the spot.

I quickly plugged in the Santa and pressed play, disregarding the 30-page operations manual and CD (instructions are for pussies) Here is what happened:

Notice my cat even is transfixed with the gift at about 2 minutes in.

And then the Pièce de résistance.

After I erased the permagrin from my face, I decided to press further to see what all the additional content was.

I thumbed through the 30-page operations manual, which had hilarious instructions, a few disclaimers and many in depth diagrams and schematics. I started to think that my Santa actually put this thing together from scratch. I thought it was a joke, but then I popped in the CD to find the following video files in the dungeon of my Santa testing and explaining the inner working of my gift.

I was in shock at the level of effort put forth and opted to write this thank you note, rather than turn him in as the Unibomber.

For the SS reveal please check out ZUG and click on the title link. I don't want to give away who it was (cough, cough, Manhole & Straw)

THE JEW THAT RUINED CHRISTMAS

2008-12-16T13:21:00.001-05:00

My first Christmas was nearly a decade ago, but it is a trip worth reliving as part of the healing process. I was still courting my then girlfriend, now wife, and was going to her house for Christmas after only two months of dating. This would be my first encounter with her family and friends, and I wanted to make a good impression.

We spent the majority of Christmas Eve eating, drinking and watching a burning Yule Log on the TV. I was used to eating Chinese food and recounting the nailing of Jesus to the cross with my fellow Zionists, so this was a nice change. I was trying my best to keep up with the family binge drinking that included eggnog, gin martinis and Busch Light using her grandmother as the pace car. I significantly underestimated the voracity with which small town folk consume alcohol, but I wanted to be accepted at any cost. I was getting very drunk, very quick. As I started to take a family poll to see if everyone thought Jesus was black, my girl stepped in to save me and took me out for a night on the town.

My wife’s home is a small town called Nelson located in northern Illinois, population: 163. Not to be confused with Nelson:

or Nelson:

...both of whom you could probably find in town, which consists of one bar next to a set of railroad tracks, appropriately named "The Railside". After a quick lesson in drunk driving I made it through the vast cornfields to the bar and stumbled in gracefully.

As soon as I entered the bar, it became clear that this was the first time anyone had seen a Jew in Nelson. The bar went from clamor to silence, as all eyes were on me. I felt like the Sheriff from Blazing Saddles strolling into town. My temulency was at a 20, and I walked up to the bar to order a round of drinks when the bartender snickered “Hey, looks like an EYEtalian just rolled into town, heh!” I couldn't help but giggle and decided to play along. I replied “due Peroni' s, per favore”. The bartender stared me down. I am certain this was the same look the SS gave my people just before escorting us to the showers. I gave a nervous laugh and corrected myself, “Two beers please.” The bartender replied, “$3, señor” and I threw down an Alexander Hamilton and told him to keep the change.

As high school friends started to pour in the bar, I was introduced around and the group quickly started to take to me. They were offering me the spoils of Nelson (Kodiak chewing tobacco and duck jerky -- yes, there is such a thing) and even took me out for a roll in the pickup truck to smoke pot in the cornfields. Who knew pickup trucks have a backseat? I was winning over the crowd, but I was belligerent.

Duck jerky.

I openly admitted Christmas was the best holiday ever and that I wished I had grown up in Nelson, IL! The bar raised their beers and got rowdy at the east coast props. In my mind, they were all chanting "Gooble Gobble we accept him!” The rest of the night, the details were hazy, but by 5:00 am we had stumbled home. I was very pleased with myself that I had made it through the night alive and was ready for some much needed shuteye.

At 7:30 am my girlfriend started to shake me frantically saying, “It’s time, it’s time, get up, get up!” I didn't know what that meant, but knew I was still drunk, high and swaying like Mohammed Ali in the 12th round. This was not going to end well.

Breakfast.

The family sat gathered around the tree with presents scattered around the living room floor. Her mother placed a hot plate of ham, eggs and venison sausage on my lap and handed me a Mimosa. My two-year-old nephew sat with the huge grin on his face and looked adorable in his Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer hooded onesie.

As I looked around at the beautiful family with all the presents, glowing tree and bountiful meal, I began to panic. I felt a rumble in my stomach and was overwhelmed with the smell of venison, egg and the constant burping of gin, eggnog, dip and Busch Light. I had a look on my face like I had something to say, and everyone watched intently as I took in my first Christmas morning. What the family didn’t know was that the look on my face was the inevitability of me ruining the holiday.

I couldn't contain myself. I projectile vomited right then and there, all over the nice carpet and the gifts on the floor in front of me. My nephew began to cry hysterically and the entire family looked as if I had killed Santa himself. Grandma sat on the couch in the back and laughed uncontrollably. I was mortified. My girlfriend started crying, and I just sat there with my head in my hands in shame as her mother ran to get paper towels and help clean up the mess. True story.

Vomiting. (As shown in the movie Stand By Me, which itself makes some people want to puke.)

Yes, I could have told the story about the Chanukah of 1989 when my father’s hairpiece fell onto the Menorah. Or the Chanukah of 86’ where my racist lush of an uncle proclaimed he was Judah Macccabee and chased the housekeeper around saying he would never bow to the will of Antiochus, but let's face it, Christmas is the cooler of the two holidays. I now look forward to my annual mecca to Nelson and the Railside tavern.

Mung Does Peru!

2008-08-27T19:28:00.008-04:00

Mung Goes To Peru!

Stay tuned for the adventures, including:

1) The quest for the Sacred Rock

2) Hookers and Pizza

3) Keistering for dummies. The perfect hiding spot.

Satan's Little Helper

2008-08-05T09:50:00.007-04:00

Yesterday I found hell. And much to my surprise, it wasn’t located in New Jersey. It was located at 609 Fifth Avenue, between Saks and the Shwarma King. I am referring, of course, to *American Girl (*Made in China), the place where little girls go to worship Satan and ritually stampede one another, while raping their parents pockets. The premise is similar to the Cabbage Patch Kids craze of the 80’s, except the doll looks like an actual child and the hair is made from real Taiwanese day laborers.

I decided to take my niece shopping for her 6th birthday and this was the place she wanted to go. As the doors open, I saw an army of rabid children, So, like any responsible adult, I started to toss kids left and right (kicking them while they were down) and made a B-line to the “Personal Shopper” area. The “Personal Shopper” aka.devil’s helper, on this particular day, was Robin and her eyes burned like fire from the River Styx.

Robin walked us through the entire catalogue of merchandise and after an hour of indecision, my niece picked out an idol that looked just like her (if she were a Stepford child or a Scientologist). She then proceeded to accessories the tits out of this doll with everything she could get her hands on. You can purchase everything from matching outfits, automobiles, wire hair brushes and gynecological stirrups. Sky is the limit!

There were many additional options, including tea time, group photos and a dual haircut for child and doll, but we had to take out a second mortgage on my wife’s ovaries just to clear the initial shopping spree, so we had to pass. As Robin exited back into her Hellraiser box, she came back with doll in hand and gave us the special instructions, which sounded strangely like the rules to a UFC cage match.

Rule 1: No eye gouging.
Rule 2: No hair pulling.
Rule 3: No hitting in the back of the head, or in this case…Do not cut the string behind the neck!

Apparently, if this string is severed, the head of the doll will fall off, not immediately, but over a few days.

My mind raced, and I secretly thought of all the great jokes to play on the kids wandering around store. Or better yet, if my niece was ever bad, Uncle Mung might just cut the cord and wear Mrs. Honey Bunny around his neck as punishment. But, I just reinforced the rules and she seemed to understand. Of course, her three year old brother will not adhere to such rules and will eventually kill this American (Chinese) Girl.

So as I get the credit card slip, and die a little on the inside, there is only one thing left to do… pick a name. If my manliness hadn’t already been stripped at the door, I was given the death blow when she solved the final piece of the puzzle. “I think I will call her Trixie**!”, she said.

I let out an audible gasp, bit my lip and welcomed Trixie Belle into the Mung family. Now I get to hear all the zany adventures of Trixie and my niece, from bathing together to exploring the black holes of distant galaxies. The good news is that I have pre-ordered the doorknob accessories kit for Christmas, and I am fairly confident that Trixie will be a very happy doll.

Joy!

**Inside joke alert. Trixie is gay and enjoys doorknobs up the arse.

"Plan B" - Hotel Pron

2008-06-04T22:29:00.019-04:00

I recently stayed at the Marriott in Philadelphia and wanted to unwind from a long business conference by wreaking havoc on my body (and my hotel room). The goal was simple, spread as much DNA all over the walls, furniture and duvet covers as humanly possible. If I was successful, room 1721 would look like a CSI investigation and I would be left a broken, hobbled man. However, I made a fatal flaw in execution: I left the laptop at home! In a panic, I was forced to go to ”Plan B”….“OnDemand” hotel porn.

At first glance, I was delighted that the days of Skin-a-Max and the fast-forward-less OnDemand were a thing of the past. My biggest concern would be if these movies would show the money shot and avoid the prolonged male orgasm face (instant wood killer). Armed with a bottle of Jergens, I was ready to get the party started – cue the lights.

To reach my goal, I went all out and purchased the $39.99 “Adults unlimited package” (on the corporate Amex since my cock was on the clock). I started to select each movie, in the order they appeared, and proceeded to fast forward to the money shots, which were all pleasantly accounted for. The movies were par for the course: straight sex, amateur, older woman, blowjob, handjob, lesbian etc. Yawn! Maybe when I was 13 could these give me any movement in the pants, but years of internet desensitization have ruined any possibility of completion. I would need to see something more.

I scrolled further down the menu: Fat Girls, Dyke Lesbians, Japanese Crying Porn, Strap-on Female-Female Domination, Hairy Bush, Big Butts, Chocolate Mamas, Tiny Tits-Monster Cock’s and the always friendly Gaping Anal. Jaaackpot! It looks like this throw pillow is about to get its fair share of throat yogurt!

Three hot, steamy loads later, I was happy with the progress I had made on room destruction. The curtains were dripping, the ottoman looked like a scene from Caligula and the throw pillow was ready to be incinerated. However, I had exhausted almost every title on the list.

Tucked away at the very bottom, as if no one ever makes it to the end of the list, lay a hidden gem. The selection stood before me like a big red button you always want to push, but were afraid, “Ugly Girls Need Loving Too”. What? Ugly Girls? No fucking way!

I pressed play, nervous and excited. There it she was in all her glory. She was an octogenarian with a mug that looked like Eric Stoltz from MASK . She was sporting nice, thick grandma panties, which she removed to show her pierced labia. Each vaginal lip had what looked like a fishing weight on each side to create the longest beef drapes these eyes have ever seen.

There were three boys waiting to pleasure this Golem, each looked 15 years old and of the same gene pool as granny; however, they looked like C.H.U.D.S.. One of cannibals went down on her, to which I let out an audible gasp. The bile crawled up my throat and distracted me from further details. At least two girls, one cup had some hot chicks eating each other’s feces; this was just gross. Ugly granny incest porn is not what I signed up for! (I canceled my subscription to that site at least three months ago).

The two remaining troglodytes start drilling her toothless mouth. She starts speaking German (although I guess any time you have two cocks in your mouth you probably sound like your speaking German). I was disgusted with myself. And more to the point, I was disgusted with the Marriott.

I couldn’t go on any further with this experiment. I had been beaten by the ghastly granny and never got off a forth shot. I wrote a comment card to Marriott to explain my displeasure in ruining what should have been a beautiful evening. The text read as follows:

“You fucking people have some nerve. I like my porn like I like my coffee...amputated with two midgets tickling my stump. Ugly Girl's Gone Wild did not live up to its name. How dare you pass off granny incest porn as ugly chick porn. I am glad I came all over your heavenly bed. Please credit me for the adults unlimited.”

So here is the moral of the story for those traveling and planning to engage the auto erotic ~~asphyxiation~~ behavior. Hotel porn still has a long way to go before you leave the laptop home. Conspicuously absent were the fisting, scatting, impossible penetrations and midget-amputee porn we have all come to rely on to get off. But, nonetheless, if ugly, incest, granny porn are what get you off, then OnDemand will be a fine “Plan B” for your next hotel visit.

Love at first sight?

2008-06-01T16:59:00.000-04:00

Originally referenced on GAB, This was a Missed Encounter I posted on CL.

Below is the reprint or here for the original:

I was thinking about you at Subway today - m4w - 29 (Midtown West)

Dear Hot Blond Chick With The Nice Rack,

I saw you at "Subway" this afternoon ("Eat Fresh", not the shit hole underground) on 35th and 7th. As you sat there ordering the 6’ inch Tuna with all the veggies, I couldn't help think what life would be like with you.

As I stood next to you (Me with the popped collared, white, Lacoste shirt: You with the Louie Vuitton purse and scoop neck Red top) I wondered what our relationship would be like. I imagine it would go something like this…

Our first few dates would be bliss! We would venture around the city, chuckle at the homeless and bask in the olfactory goodness that emanates from the hot garbage on the pavement. Hell, we might even stop back at Subway to rekindle the spark, we obviously work close to one another.

As years passed eventually we would marry and you would pop out twins. The family fights at Passover would be unbearable and our friends would hate us collectively. Your aging face and body would start to droop and you would no longer look like that bang-able girl I once met online at the sandwich repository. Your hormones would rage and eventually we would divorce bitterly, as you publicize every heinous secret of our relationship and take me for every dollar and cent.

I would sit in isolation in my apartment for a while as the filth piled and I stewed in anger. Thinking about my aberration for you would lead me towards a hired gun to end your misery and end this nightmare of a relationship.
After a short standoff with the police, I would get hauled off to prison and spend my remaining years being brutalized by inmates thinking about how I wish I never craved that fucking 6 inch sub low those many years ago.

So, as I walked away from you today, with my sandwich in hand as you were bird pecking away at your Tuna, I hope you weren’t taken aback when I muttered “fucking cunt” under my breath. I will not be shit on by anyone (unless of course, I have paid good money and she stands on a fine German table).

If you want to grab a bite to eat some time to talk about the past and try to bury the hatchet, you’ll know where to find me. We once had something special and we should try to get that back if possible.

Hope to see you tomorrow!

M.C. "

WII F-A-T

2008-05-29T13:11:00.004-04:00

I decided to take a break from the police killing, carjacking and prostitute fucking of Grand Theft Auto (and my everyday life) to look into the healthier, less murderous, Wii Fitness. My wife had pre-ordered the game to try and add some movement into my day to day catatonia and I figured I would humor her.

I opened the box yesterday, setup the balance board, and placed myself delicately on the scale. The Wii asked for my height, weight etc.. and after a few moments of calculating, the Wii said I was obese. I was delighted! All had gone according to plan. And as I looked down at my cock sitting atop the scale I realized that I have an abnormally out of shape member.

My wife walked in from work and gasped at the site of me on my knees working the balance board and demanded I stand up. I was shocked to learn this game was not just about phallic weighing. As a man, the first thing to do with any purchased object is to 1) throw out the instructions b) Put your penis into, onto or around said object.

So, after some confusion and a thirty minute tutorial from my wife, I actually stood on the scale and put in real body measurements to see what would happen (not nearly as fun as the original plan). The Wii started calculating and then became judge, jury and executioner. I am overweight!

My world was shattered, bitch tits and all, and I feel like every little porker that stepped on the scale and came off with an eating disorder. I ran into the kitchen for some comfort ice-cream and resumed murdering and raping. I also continued to play Grand Theft Auto IV and flipped my wife the bird for ruining my evening.

Side Effects May Include...

2008-05-28T17:04:00.000-04:00

"Originally posted on GAB"

In an effort to save the three hairs left on my head I have been taking Propecia for almost two years. And while the three hairs are still perfectly combed over (ala Homer J Simpson), and the coat of hair on my neck, back and body are thicker than ever, I still have to deal with the daily side effects of the drug.

Now I know that many of you have seen the commercials for prescription drugs. You know, the ones that read like side effects for Chernobyl fallout victims? But I really didn't give a quality read of the bottle when I signed up for this drug.

Here are the "potential side effects" listed on the bottle

1) Decreased libido
2) Decreased volume of ejaculate
3) Impotence
4) Breast tenderness or enlargement

The ironic thing here is that I am and have been taking this drug to make me feel like more of a man and less like an eagle.

So there you have it! I am a product of my drugs and if I cared enough to be sexual, I guess I would just shoot a thin load all over my tender, meaty man boobs from my unerect penis.

But thanks Propecia for allowing me to keep my hair, it covers my five-head well! I am sure all the ladies will line up to be non pleasured. Maybe we can just rub breasts and be friends?

I put this out there for any of you who may be delving in the prescription world to share your side effects and pain.

The Search for a Happy Ending!

2008-05-16T22:22:00.000-04:00

Featured article on ZUG. The first of a three part adventure

Part IV: A New Hope

After much curiosity and excitement, I wanted to see what the Asian Massage Parlor (AMP) scene was like here in NYC. So I kissed my wife, had her sign a permission slip, and took this experiment to the street to see what the lore and legend of the Happy Ending service is all about. I have cataloged my experience, similar to the Dateline investigations with Chris Hanson, except I come armed with $150, a photographic memory, and a childish giggle. My quest is for the holy grail: A Happy Ending!

There are many Asian Massage Parlors in New York, which run the gamut in terms of service and experience; the Rub-N-Tug, Mouthful of the Orient, or the Eliot Spitzer (with and without socks), to name a few. But, for the purposes of this experiment (and to maintain my marriage), I headed to a place known for specializing in the legitimate Kung Fu-Grip (Rub-N-Tug), which I prefer not to mention in an effort to maintain the integrity of this hidden gem (cough, cough, cough, West Garden Spa).

My journey begins at the doorway of a building. Double-frosted glass doors, dragon sign and an unmarked buzzer. I am buzzed into what appears to be a legitimate spa, with the fragrant smell of lavender and broken dreams. As I approach the front desk, I am greeted by the Mamasan, who immediately looks like she knows me and quickly calls out, “Nannnnaaaa”. My confusion begins, as I look all around, not sure if this is a typical Korean greeting and if I am supposed to reply to her.

My initial thought is to scream back “Haaaannnd Jooooobbb?”, but tact and a little bit of patience quickly clear up the miscommunication. As luck would have it, the answer comes quickly in the form of a short skirted, tube topped Korean who appears almost out of thin air. I start to see that the mythology and lore of these places, which must be based on the fact that Asian possess magical powers.

The Mamasan smiles and says to the woman “This A numba one customer, you take care of he. A#1, A1! She take gooood care of you.” Now I realize they have me confused with every other young, white, business guy coming into this establishment after work, but I take this as a good sign, since repeat customers usually get the royal treatment, as far as I know. And, at the very least, I know I am getting treatment befitting of the steak sauce which bears the same name. I fucking love A-1!

I hand mamma the $100 and the masseuse grabs my hand and walks me down a long hallway, saying, “It been so long, I miss you, Nana Miss you. Why you no come long time.” I mentally freeze up. Not because of the situation, or the fact that she is speaking broken English, but more importantly that this woman shares the same name as my 97 year old grandma in Boca Raton (instant wood killer). This is going to be a very awkward exchange if she continually addresses herself in the third person and as my grandmother, but I shake it off and follow her into the locker room.

She sits me down and asks me, “Shower”? I realize this broken English exchange is going to be the norm for the session, so try and follow along, but I have to pretend like I have done this before, else I may jeopardize the ending. She hands me a towel and walks out of the locker room. Instinct tells me to get naked, as a regular would be confident and comfortable to be out there and loving it, so I figured let’s see how this plays out. I drop trou, hang up my clothes and dangle my manliness for all to see.

She comes back to the room and to her shock she mutters something in Korean. Now I am not sure what the word for bigfoot or hairy beast is in Korean, but I don’t need an interpreter to know when she is talking about my hairy bitch tits. Still, she had a big kimchi-eating grin on her face, gave me the friendly wax on wax off of my man boobs (tweaked them a little), giggled to herself and playfully grabbed my hand to escort me to the shower room.

I should take a moment to caveat the body hair. I have tassels around the nips, and a happy trail that could launch an invasion on Mordor. King Kong ain’t got shit on me! But I digress. It was time to begin the journey…

Stay tuned for Part V: Nana Strikes Back.

The Search for a Happy Ending Part 2

2008-05-14T12:24:00.000-04:00

Featured article on ZUG

Part V: Nana Strikes Back

I was visiting an Asian Massage Parlor in NYC, doing some "undercover" journalism. My quest was to find that elusive service known as the "Happy Ending." In the first part of my report, I was led to a "shower room" by a Korean woman named Nana, who asked me to take off all my clothes.

Now naked, I walk into the shower room, but oddly enough there isn’t a shower at all! I see a padded table with a drain on the floor and a water hose which empties into a large bucket. The Jew inside me is telling me to run. Jews, shower, Nana, this is getting to be too much! I know how this story ended in 1945, but if I can just get past the insecurity embedded into my Shylock people, I might be able to join the Happy Ending Club.

I get back to thinking rationally, and by rationally I mean wondering in which orifice that hose will end up. A quick grab of my towel, some giggling, and she tells me “face-a down”, which I gladly oblige as I lay down on the bed. Nana pulls a loofah out of the pail and starts to suds me up from neck to feet. She makes it a point to spend extra time cleaning my jellyring, for which I am appreciative, but apprehensive. Then I heard the sweet sound I was waiting for: “Turnna Ovveerrr.”

I got a little excited here, partly because I didn’t know what to expect, and partly because someone who couldn’t string together a sentence was inches away from my pee-pee. She started at the chest, and the suds were immediately soaked up into the forest, to which she giggled and I let out a girly “tee-hee.” Then she got lower, avoiding the obvious glaring member, limp but impressive, staring her right in the face. She navigated up through the thick vegetation from my leg hair to my inner thigh.

Then, without hesitation: Jackpot! Nana gets to work cleaning the money spot, giggling and repeating the ever-important conversation which would be a staple of the rest of the afternoon: “Ohhhhhhh Nana like, ooooooohhh Nana like, iss soo nice, Nana liike.” Although in my head, I am thinking of my own grandmother, who was also called Nana, I realize this particular Nana enjoys cleaning my wang, and is taking to it as if polishing a Jaguar for the Javitz Center Auto Show. I remember fondly when I was young, Nana yelling at me for diving off the two-foot deep rail at the Century Village community pool. I think I will replace that memory with this Nana hobbing my nob.

If I weren’t so nervous, I probably could have had a happy ending right then and there, but cooler heads prevailed and she sprinkled me with some water and rinsed me off, figuring, even if we part company now this was pretty sweet. She towels me down, robes me up, grabs my hand and takes me back down the hall further to one of the massage rooms.

Stay tuned for Part VI: The Return of Mung.

The Search for a Happy Ending Part 3

2008-05-13T10:47:00.000-04:00

Featured article on Zug.

"Finding Hap-penis"

Part VI: The Return of Mung

I was visiting an Asian Massage Parlor in NYC, doing some "undercover" journalism. My mission: to find that elusive service known as the "Happy Ending." In Part 1 and Part 2 of my report, I was lathered up and hosed down by a Korean masseuse named Nana.

Now the lights are low and I am told to get on the table, face down, into an open ended pillow. And by told I mean pointed to the table with an utterance that sounded like, “Berry down.” Religious, church-like music is playing in the background, which I find odd. Not because I am Jewish and naked, but rather because I might actually see Jesus if this thing ends up the way the legend goes.

She whispers into my ear, “So you lika strong o media.” I say “softa.” I think by this time I am actually starting to get the hang of this Engrish and can probably get by with making shit up. She giggles uncontrollably and starts talking as if there are others in the room. “He saya softa, ahahahah, softa you no likey harda. He so silly. OK Nana go real softaaa.” I was partly waiting for her to say “My precious, nasty Hobbits wants to take my precious,” but luckily the third person rhetoric was only for a few seconds.

As I sit blindly staring at through the open pillow of the massage table, I feel a strange feeling by my feet. Nana lifts each leg and puts wooden blocks to prop each foot up and open. Oh boy, this went from a WW2 shower scene to a Kathy Bates Misery scene real quick. I am truly exposed, and if Ashton Kutcher is going to jump out and punk me, the least he can do is give me a reacharound from this position.

These thoughts fade. She uses light fingertips all over my body, starting at the neck, gently running down my back. I had pictured exotic oils, but my guess is with my amount of body hair, I would require 6-7 bottles per minute with the absorption factored in. So I was not at all surprised this session was dry ... for now.

She continues down my body, lightly to the top of my crack and then “whooooaaaa.” What the fuck? Did she just graze my ass? Oh wait she’s there! I perk up in surprise. I wasn’t expecting anything in the furpatch, and to tell you the truth, the trouble with my Tribble was the Barbacoa black bean burrito from Chipotle one hour prior. A new wave of panic hits me! As assplay ensues, all I can think about is how I asked for extra cheese and guac on the burrito bowl and that Nana may get 2-girl, 1-cupped if she proceeds any further with her grazing.

She senses my unease (or maybe it was the rumbling from my sphincter), and continues all around, but I can see these blocks leave me completely open and vulnerable to assault. Light tapping and her constant whisper set the mood and she uses her long jet black hair to tickle my body forest. ”Oooooohhhhooooohh” is repeated with upward and downward inflection for the next 20 minutes as I am relaxed with feather touches and the music continues its hymn-like trance. Then, those magical words, the ones I had been waiting for, but now fill me with anxiety, excitement and gas: “Turnna Ovvvvvaaa.”

I turn over. I realize to this point I hadn’t even looked at Nana, partly because I didn’t have my glasses, but more so because I am blind without my glasses and my astigmatism makes the room seem more like the moonwalk than a massage parlor. Nana looked about 30 years old in the dim lit room, long black hair, petite frame, clothes were all on and I then I realized I could do much better than her. So I stopped looking directly into the sun and focused my eyes on the ceiling. I tried to picture something hotter, like Molly Ray Cyrus ... I mean, uh, Elizabeth Hurley, yeah, Hurley. That covers hot, international and age appropriate.

As Nana “Ohhh’s,” she lightly glides her nails down and she starts the chant “Nana like, ooooohhh, Nana like.” I hear a familiar sound, and recognize it as lube hitting the hands (a sound I am all too familiar with) as she wastes no time and goes right for the pole standing before her. After all this, I can’t look at her. Thoughts of my wife, Jesus music, my 97 year old grandma, Chipotle and Molly Ray are running through my head like wild. I have arrived at the end of this journey that started 55 minutes earlier, and I am doubting if I can go through. I am sweating, thinking of work, life, Hitler, anything but the moment. If I weren’t a man, I swear I wouldn’t be able to finish here.

After what seems like an eternity, but is actually 45 seconds later, I let out a pathetic girly moan and release a volcano of molten hot white magma all over my hairy chest. Nana laughs, leaves, gets me a hot towel to mop up the mess, and I am left empty, in both the wallet and the pants. The Death Star has been destroyed, the Emperor is no longer, and Ewoks rejoice far away on the planet Endor.

I have found the Happy Ending!

Jammy's 2008 Pics

2008-05-05T08:55:00.000-04:00

As I spend the rest of the day trying to even out my Serotonin level, please enjoy the one mega pixel quality that only a camera phone can deliver from last night's show at MSG from the floor.

(Originally posted on GAB)

Before all the anti-hippie rhetoric starts, let me share some excitement with those who enjoy the occasional Ramen Noodle and Green Vegetation.

Last night was the Jammy Awards at Madison Square Garden, honoring the lifetime achievement of Phish and brought together some of the sickest bands in the Jam Band scene.

Phish has been broken up since 2004, but we all hoped and prayed they would get together again and break out some crunchy riffs (not to be confused with Crunchy Tacos…mmm Crunchy Tacos!).

All four band members were in attendance and played with separate bands throughout the evening (except Gordon who came down with a horrible case of Vaginitis). However, the four came together to accept the lifetime achievement award and sent chills down our poorly postured spines, as each approached the podium to thank the fans and everyone involved in their success.

Trey had an ankle bracelet neatly tucked beneath his Khakis and had his Parole Officer was within eyesight. Page looked exactly the same thanks to Propecia. Fishman sported pants for the first time ever. And Mike looked as shaggy as ever.

After the four accepted the award, they left the stage and the fans waited for a reunion show that would never happen.

However, as an bonus to the night, members of The Disco Biscuits and Umphrey McGhee teamed up to finish the night with some a set of Phish covers, including: Wilson-->Run like an Antelope-->2001-->Maze.

What does this have to do with comedy? cuddle off, it’s the greatest live Improvisational band ever to hit the stage and they deserve some love.

Cue the Hippie beating in 3 – 2 – 1.

The God Damn Movie Theatre!

2005-11-26T12:29:00.001-05:00

I don't hate people.. I LOATHE people.. Individuals are cool, certain people are iight, but everyone else are a bunch of god damn douchbags. They offer no value or substance to existence, other than getting in my fucking way when I walk, and being complete retards. The movie theater experience highlights just how awful some people can be.

Lets get down to some real pieces of work that help foster these feelings of hatred

#1) The Movie Theater - Candy Booth People. Why Does it take 4 people to make my Coke... you would think they were splitting the fucking atom. Everyone on the line is going to order a drink.. yet every time you order a drink they have to pull out the stash of cups from underneath cupboard, open the plastic rapping, pull out one cup, go to the back and get ice and then ring you up. Now ringing up your order turns into the SAT's for these people.

Lets say the bill comes out to $11.46 and you give them a $20 bill and $.46 cents. You better plan on catching the next showing. Fucking retards!

#2) The Movie Ticket Ripper - Can you believe this shit. There are people so fucking dumb and slow that they can't even rip a ticket straight...they shake when they hand you your stub and don't know which way the theater is.

#3) The movie theater watcher. Here is the problem... there are just so many of you assholes out there

a) The Brown Bagger - Yes.. the 400 pound black woman sitting in front of you did not eat dinner before coming to the show.. and yes she is eating a bucket of fried chicken and licking her fingers. I actually saw a woman have a full cob of corn at the theatres with the metal holders and all. Thanks for bringing the stinkiest food ever and making me gag before Saw 2.. Oh yes and there will be blood!

b) The Baby Sitter - How Fantastic... You have brought your 6 month old, nipple suckling baby to the midnight showing of Star Wars 3. You are such a great parent. I really enjoyed your infant screaming and bellowing during the dialogue and fight scenes. It really made for an enriching experience. I hope your fucking kids turns into terrors and keep you up all fucking night (of course you wont notice since you probably close your doors to get some shut eye. Good thing I have Children Services on speed dial. Fuck You People!

c) The Hello Moto - Great.. your cell phone is going off! I am surprised it only took you 6 rings to figure out it was your phone, thats pretty tough to tell since your the only asshole with the Coldplay ringtone. Oh and yes feel free to take the call during the climax of the film. Just send me your number and ill be sure to call you after the film and let you know what you missed.

d) The arm wrestler - Who need elbow room. Please feel free to put your cruddy, pimply elbow on my arm rest and take my space. Why dont you just give me a reach around while you are there.

e) The Inquisitor - What did they just say? I didn't hear? Of course you didn't hear what the people in the movies said, you were busy asking what they just said, dick head. Maybe turn your hearing aid up a little would help, or I could turn it up for you since your damn elbow is already on my arm rest.

Screw the movies, I am renting InDemand.

1 PLY

2005-11-18T10:24:00.001-05:00

I have convened the senate today to call for an all out ban on single ply toilet paper.

You wouldn't wrap your newborn baby in a burlap sack, so why would you want to use sandpaper on your asshole. I just don't get it.

I use to work for a law firm for a brief stint, and I found it ironic that while they billed their clients $550 an hour ...they would have 1 ply toilet paper in the bathroom. If I am paying a lawyer that much money, I want to be sure he is not puckering tight while making a motion in court and can concentrate unfettered without the use of a blowup donut to sit on. Its just not right!!

This product serves no function and needs to be removed from the mass market immediately!

And ditto for cheap Kleanex... Theres nothing my nose needs like s good cheese grating. Its like blowing your nose with tree bark. I hate 1 ply everything.

Work The Shaft

2005-11-17T09:33:00.000-05:00

We are talking about elevators sicko.. so you can just get your mind out of the gutter.

I hate elevators. I have been stuck in an elevator before with 9 or so people and sat there helpless for 15 minutes. Now that might not seem like a long time, but in a full elevator, in the heat of summer with no AC and no chance for an escape and a full cart.. It's a death sentence.

I would characterize myself as a fairly rational indivdual, considerate of people with excellent communications skills. However, when put in a situation of panic all that nice bullshit is out the window.

First comes the hot breathing and the rapid heart beating. Then the air feels thin and the space around you starts to close. Then the assholes in the cart start saying shit like "We may be here for a while" or " I hope we don't die in here". Now call me crazy, but the one thing you don't want to mention to someone during a panic attack is death.

I was the first to press every fire / emergency button in the cart, and also the first to suggest we pry open the cart and floor doors. After 15 minutes we did just that and pried open all of the doors to find that we were stuck between floors. Now I don't watch 6 feet under, but apparently helping one another out while inbetween floors isn't the smartest idea. Being the chivalrous person I am I lept the fuck off that hot box first and ran to the stairs. I might have even screamed while jumping out "Get the fuck out of my way".

Good luck shit heads- I am out of here. Bottom line is we all escaped and my present from the experience is an intense phobia of elevators (particularly in piece of shit building like the one I work in here in Manhattan).

So, I guess I am saying in a time of panic it's every man for themselves and stay the fuck out of my way. God I hate elevators.

Taxi!

2005-11-15T12:25:00.001-05:00

Yes I have a car.. I own an entire fleet of cars. And I always have a driver. So what if he is a terrorist and smells of Tabuli.. Its the only way to travel around Manhattan

Have you driven with Masuud Mohmad Alladin (9m45) or Singh Srirama Satnarine (3h64) ... or what about Achmed Mafuzz Khalli Shek Mohammed (6d69).

Man are you guys missing out. These guys are fast, efficient and drive irregardless of human life. Some drive so fast I stain the back seat without even trying. Other times they are so jagged on the steering wheel I have the luxury of tossing it up right on the Plexiglases. Regardless, they are all awesome.

How else can you get from Canal Street to 96th street in 10 minutes? They are quicker than the subways and most of the times smell better than the anus of the underground. My personal favorite cabbies are the Bengali drivers. You will notice the driver is Bengali by the excessive speed and the radio blasting the Panjabi MC's Knight Rider theme.

I really enjoy the personal touch each cab driver adds to his/her vehicle which really are leading indicators about their personality.

The Super Man - The super man has the emblem on the car mats and probably a few pictures of the man of steel on the steering wheel. This asshole thinks hes Shaquel O'Neil, except he drives like a fucking maniac and doesn't speak a word of English. Seat belts are recommended for this ride.

The Rosary Bead or the Hindi Statue- A man of the faith.. you are in luck! Chances are this cab smells particularly like shit and the driver hasn't showered in days. Good news is your cabbie is a man of the cloth, so he prays 5 times daily that you will die in transit so he can steal your wallet. It's best to refrain from too much conversation with these guys since they want your infidel ass gone.

The I Love America Flag Sticker- Poor taxi man must have been lynched Post 9-11. He is constantly worried about those police checkpoints at the Lincoln Tunnel, and prays that black people insight a riot to take some of the heat of their ethnic ass. He has no problem entertaining you in conversation about the Beatles and hopw much he loves your sports team. What a guy!

Top 10 Urinals

2005-11-14T17:42:00.000-05:00

http://www.urinal.net/topfive.html

I saw quite a few interesting urinals during my travels, but these take the cake. Urinal cake that is

The Anus Of The Underground

2005-11-08T13:22:00.000-05:00

I find it appropriate that the underground subway of NYC gets a 10 / 10 ranking on the MUNG meter. There is no other place in the world beside the Louisiana Graveyards that you will encounter as much raw MUNG for inhalation.

I saw a rat bigger than my 20 pound cat jumping up the steps a few weeks ago because it was so foul down there. I think that the whole MTA is a cornucopia of homeless people feces, immigrant body odor, and grandmas Channel' #1 perfume. Clearly the F train and E train have new standards in Mung creation and warrant further discussion.

There is so much to talk about with the underground from the Duracell battery seller, to the Jesus preachers. However, I would like to concentrate specifically on the homeless individuals who live on the train and happen to drape themselves in shit. This is one of my more memorable trips down Mung valley:

It was 5pm and thus rush hour traffic and I was on the way home to my previous domicile in queens. As the train pulled into 23rd street station, bells and whistles should have gone off in my head. When the train car door opened there was only 1 person in the cart lying down so I figured the Air Conditining must be broke and I would sweat it out... but boy was I wrong. A few other individuals had made the same mistake as I and by the time we realized what we had walked into, the doors had closed the train was in motion to its next stop.

As I got my first concentrated whiff I noticed a slightly metallic fecal whiff, followed by the eye burning smell of MUNG. Now logic would tell you to open the door and move to the next cart, but of course they were locked. I shit you not; it was the single worst smell I have ever encountered in my entire life. The homeless man who decided to rot while riding the F train was covered in piss, shit and newspaper. [Howeverm to defend the homeless person he was draped in the New York Times, which is a third form of shit and added to my disgust].

I bite my tongue and revel in the pungency of decaying homeless carcass and by gods good grace make it to the next stop. Once the main doors open, I burst out of the train door and immediately head to the next car over.

You see my friends, my discomfort and disgust are strong emotions, but not as strong as my sense for comedy. I went directly into the next cart and stood right by the window facing all the other poor bastards that made the same mistake I did. I watched for 45 minutes as people would enter the train car, the doors would close and I would watch their faces in disgust and panic as they all gagged and prayed. My particular favorite was the 15-minute long trip between Roosevelt Island and Queens Plaza, which had the added bonus of getting stuck for a few minutes in transit. Those poor bastards turned green and their misery made my experience much more palatable.

Truly a ride home to remember, but more to the point I actually stopped taking the Subway all together and enjoy the cool crisp air nowadays of stinky Taxi cab drivers. But that’s a different story.

Slow Walkers Suck!

2005-11-07T21:43:00.000-05:00

I have wanted to rant about slow walkers for quite some time and warn you in advance that this is my number 1 pet peeve. Everyday I walk with venom in Manhattan, desperately trying to go somewhere... but I find that "people" don't have the same agenda. I think Ludacris said it best when he declared " Move Bitch.. Get Out Da Way.. Get Out Da Way Bitch Get Out The Way!"

GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!! Here are some simple suggestions for you assholes who feel as though you can lollygag when you hit the streets of NYC.

1) Look Forward!! Guess what dipshit.. people are coming at you from all sides, its probably best to look in the general vicinity of people moving rather than your cell phone, I-Pod, or the dildo you obviously you have stuck in your ass.

2) Get the Fuck out of my way! I hate to reiterate that point, but if you see me coming towards you with speed and ferocity just clear the way!

I want to address the principal offenders here, so as not to alienate you other frustrate walkers. Those who walk by placing one foot in front of the other should be commended.

Here are the offenders:

Straight Out Of Prison Homey's- These mother fuckers have absolutely no where to go. They don’t have I-Pods.. the have tape players and boom boxes and bounce everywhere. My 96-year-old grandparents do laps around these people and still make Sunday brunch at Century Village in Boca.

Fat Bitches fatty-fatty-two-by-four-cant-get-through-the-kitchen-door, put down the fucking Crispy Creams and take those pylons you call legs and mooooo-ve the fuck out of my way

Cell Phone People- Hey I can do two things at the same time.. Unfortunately they are talk on the phone and chew gum.. what about WALKING assholes!. I am sure your friends love the sound of you in the streets of Manhattan shouting into their ear! Here comes that car bitch... splat!

Couples.. Yes daisy chain people, I am talking to you. I look forward to crashing into your arms and pulling your shoulders right out of the socket. If you leave me 3 inches between you I am in there like R Kelly on an amber alert.

I-Pod people - Nothing like completely blocking out the outside world when you are going somewhere. I know there is a nice shiny bus fender with your name on it and I sure as hell hope it's the M42. After it rolls your ass down, I will get on and hopefully save myself the aggravation of dealing with every other asshole on the street.

Crackheads - Who doesn't love an ashy, constantly itching crackhead. I know I do. But if you are going to pass out and play dead while on Benzo's and Methadone, you can at least have the courtesy to move yourselves in front of ongoing traffic rather then across the sidewalk. Just a suggestion of course.

God I hate people sometimes.. Enough about walking.

The Mens Room is a Shit Stye

2005-11-04T09:03:00.001-05:00

You women are soooo lucky you don't have to deal with the public mens room. There is always some fucked up stuff going on and each incident is sicker than the next.

I will try to bring you in for just a few snippets as to what we have to deal with on a daily basis, so you can be glad you have a Vagina.

There are many different types of mens rooms, from the stalls at Giants stadium, to the urinals at your local bar. The following observations apply to those stalls open to the "general public".

1) The urinal violator - OK we all know the scenario, you walk into a bathroom, there are 3 urinals and 2 stalls. Some sick fuck decides to take the middle urinal because he wants to look at, grab and hold your penis tonight. What do you do? Well you sure as hell don't go to the stall, that's like closing the prison cell. You put your junk back in your pants and get the fuck out.

2) The toilet bowl- why is it that every toilet bowl in any mens room looks like a scene out of Silence of the Lambs? Lets just say feces is the cleanest thing you will see on the seat in any public room. I would chose to piss in the sink in this incident.

3) The bathroom attendant - This one really irks me! Has it really come to the point where I need someone to wash my hands after I drop the Cosby kids off at the pool? And yes, keep talking to me while I urinate. Maybe we could go to the bar holding our penises and talk about sports, the weather and memories past? Here's a dollar, thanks for passing me the paper towel. You should at least get a reach around and possibly the zip up for your money.

4) The Smell - There is something ungodly about the smell of all mens rooms. I think the problem starts with the fact that we have a dangling urinal gun that fires in streams. Urine is everywhere in a mens room simply by gods cruel design and our horrible coordination after a 12 pack. Aside from the urine there is the feces, semen, dinner and Mung leftover, which congeal into the most delicious smelling aroma. If you were to take a blacklight to a mensroom it would look like a Dali painting.

5) The Urinal Cake - Nothing cake-like about it. Why they call it a cake is beyond me. Some asshole must have taken a bite after a long night of drinking. Every cake I have ever seen has at least 1 cigarette butt in it and makes the bathroom smell more like shit than the stalls.

6) The Wild Life -There is always a new species of insect or fungus which I notice crawling around the room. The most recent addition which gave me the idea for this posting was a cockroach with wings.

The Boob Tube

2005-10-31T14:21:00.001-05:00

Let's Face it, television might as well have a pair of tits' nestled right next to the power button. I LOVE TELEVISION (and tits')!!!

I dont mean that as a euphemism. I LOVE TELEVISION (and tits')! If Panasonic added a fleshskin remote control already pre-lubricated, I wouldn't need to leave the house.

It truely is an addiction that I have no intention of quiting anytime soon. I am thinking about television right now.

I have a one bedroom apartment and 3 televisions! One in the bedroom, one in the living room, and an emergency battery powered TV in the closet (in case Con Ed doesn't get my payment in time). Thats the type of control TV has on me.

I can't seriously begin a blog without taking the time to give television its props. Most of the material that comes out of my mouth is probably just a compilation of 40000 different shows anyway. If I were you, I would stop reading right now and go straight to the source. All Hail The Boob!

Coming soon ... Lots O' Mung

Greeting and Salutations

2005-10-28T16:52:00.000-04:00

Top of the Mung to you!

I use to write an underground newspaper in highschool called "Nothing But The Truth". But the more I think about it, it should have been called nothing but bullshit. I was always concerned with the audience reading the paper, and never really tore in to what I was really thinking.

Bottom line is... I don't give a shit what other people think of me (and my spelling). I am real (perverted, sick, crazy, gross, horney, Jewish) . So I promise to be nothing else but real.

Now for those of you that haven't been exposed to Mung.. I will give a definition courtesy of the Urban Dictionary.

MUNG DEFINITION

"The worst possible thing that could be imagined, conceived, or performed by the human mind. Eating the remaining bodily fluids of a dead women may fall under this category.

"To witness an act of mung could shock the mind into insanity"

Enjoy!!