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Home of Official Site for Ric Browde
Read excerpts and find out why you need to buy While I'm Dead...Feed The Dog!
Ric's discography as a record producer and songwriter.
The history of Ric Browde.
Immortality or double your money back!
Weird stuff.
Ric's friends.

I am the son of God.

Before you go around thinking I am some heretical Pat Buchanan loving NRA gun toting crackpot permaguest on Geraldo just listen to my proof. Quite frankly at the end you will be convinced that you too are in the Son or Daughter of God class - it isn’t that exclusive.

According to the Bible, Jesus was the result of an immaculate conception - which is what started him in the immensely profitable Son of God business. That is why I too can claim membership in the Son of God club - because my parents never had sex - ever.

Your parents didn’t either.

Look at them. Can you imagine them fucking? No, it’s impossible. Can you imagine your mom giving your dad a blowjob? I can’t. The only time my mother has ever been on her knees was while praying for a new washer dryer. I am one hundred percent positive that my father never tried to get my mother drunk so he could take advantage of her - and I am damn sure even if he did, there is no way he could have gotten into her pants because her clothes were hermetically sealed onto her body. Sex was like that old 7-Up advertisement to them...they never had it - and never will.

Our parents grew up during the Dark Ages in towns like Mayberry R.F.D.. Women were named ‘Mabel’ and ‘Thelma’, while men were cursed with ‘Gomer’ and ‘Barney’. Trust me, people named Thelma, Mabel, Gomer and Barney do not have sex. Their lives were so boring that colors weren’t even invented yet - everything was in black and white. If you don’t believe me just watch Nick at Nite.

So when did sex begin? At first I thought it was invented by Dominique, the girl I lost my virginity to - but when I asked her, she laughed and told me she wasn’t a virgin. I asked her who she had sex with before me, but she refused to tell - saying she didn’t have enough time.

Consequently I was forced to do some research on the subject. After a few hours in the library where I noticed there were no books on sex, I was compelled to go to original source material and turned on my television looking for the Discovery Channel. It was while switching channels that I made the most amazing social anthropological find. Sex was invented in 1968!

It happened at Woodstock during Jimi Hendrix’s set. He was playing Purple Haze to a crowd of acid tripping hippies. It was during the second chorus when Annica Pettersson from Stockholm and Jethro Benning of Enid, Oklahoma had the first documented case of sex. Unfortunately for the couple they weren’t smart enough to apply for a patent. Pettersson was an illegal alien and was scared the I.N.S. were going to toss her ass out of here, and Benning was from the Sooner (As in, “I’d sooner better be fillin’ up the ice chest with beer and driving my home over to the tractor pull”) State and didn’t know how to read or write and therefore was unable to fill out the registration form.

Sex would have gone undiscovered for another hundred or maybe even thousands of years had it not been for an accident of fate. Back in the days before video cassettes were available a failed actor who was forced to take a government day job had broken into Warner Brothers Studios film vaults in an attempt to steal a print of the crowning achievement of his career. The movie was Bedtime For Bonzo and the government worker, a State of California employee, was named Ronald Reagan. Anyway, as Ronnie sneaked his purloined film down the halls of Warner Brothers he came to an open doorway where he heard the sound of voices. Scared that he might not be able to pass the door without being detected he peered into the room and cased the place.

It was an editing room, and the employees were hard at work assembling the Woodstock movie. Just as he was about to make a dash past the room, the burglar’s eyes were drawn to the large movie screen where the Warner editors were engrossed with the Hendrix footage. Any one with any soul, taste or even a sense of music would have been mesmerized be the artistry of the greatest guitar hero of all time, but Ronnie had none of the above and his eyes were drawn to the far left corner of the screen where Pettersson and Benning were going through their primitive gyrations.

Remember this was 1968, a full ten years before his Alzheimer’s kicked in, and Reagan did not need the Red Sea to part for him to realize there was something extraordinary going on. He was transfixed by what he saw - so much that he abandoned his previous mission, dropped his ill gotten gains on a nearby table and walked into the room to get a closer look at the film.

Fortunately for our would-be thief the workers looked up at their visitor and were not alarmed at his presence. It seems that one of them actually recognized Reagan from his cushy government job. “Howdy Governor Reagan, what brings you here?” the worker asked, offering Ronnie his hand to shake.

“Uh, I was, um checking... yeah that’s it...checking on the jewel of California’s economy and so I decided to visit your movie studio. Say there, that’s a fine looking film, do you mind if I see it again?”

The film editors played it back several times for Reagan and he examined the scene carefully in slow motion. A new morning was upon us as Ronnie slowly got it - he had discovered “fucking”.

Ronnie just had to figure out how it worked. He went home and eagerly experimented. First he tried to fuck a chair. That didn’t work too well. He tried to fuck his garbage disposal. That hurt. He tried to fuck his hand. This was the turning point for both Ronnie Reagan and the world. It felt good - really good. As soon as the warts went away from his hand, he called in his wife Nancy - and showed her his new trick. He then fucked her.

Life was momentarily good, but sadly Ronnie quickly became addicted to fucking. He tried to fuck everything, in fact frequently visitors to California would hear natives moan, “here comes that fucking Reagan” as they scurried out of his path.

Soon Ronnie’s highs began to fade and weren’t the same. Sex was a drug taking control of his addicted body. Like all junkies Reagan needed bigger and bigger fixes to maintain his high - and so he had to move on to larger things to fuck. He satiated himself briefly by fucking California, but even the Golden State was not enough and finally, in 1980, he graduated to fucking up the United States. By 1981 Ronnie’s two state a week habit wasn’t a thrilling enough high. Together with some of his Contra buddies from the drug producing countries of Latin America he invented a desperate junkie lie called “tinkle down economics” so he could loot the treasury in order to score the ultimate fix - fucking the whole world.

Like most junkies Reagan did not want to get high alone. Consequently he turned all his friends on to the high of fucking - and it swept the country faster than the hula hoop and as fast as BMW driving Generation X yuppies smoking trendy cigars in exclusive dens while lingering under the false impression that they somehow look cool instead of like the ridiculously lame poser scumbags that they are.

It was hip to fuck and everyone who was anyone was fucking. However many of those left outside looking in saw sex as a threat to the moral fabric of our society and right wing politicos and church authorities tried to suppress it. First they had the bright idea of threatening people, saying they would never get to heaven if they had sex. Try telling someone that they aren’t going to go to heaven while they’re getting a blowjob and see how effective a deterrent that is - it just won’t work.

Having failed miserably, the anti-fucking movement tried aversion therapy by casting people like George Bush and Condoleezza Rice as role models and having them espouse family values. Look at them and you won’t want to have sex or any family to value was their rationale. Quite a few people decided to kick their habits and rehab but the vast majority of hard core sex addicts remained.

Meanwhile the forces of sex were not going to take this laying down. As much as they liked laying down they recognized this was a fight as important as life itself. They commissioned top scientists to come up with new and better ways of keeping the populace hooked on sex.

Silicone was pumped into women’s tits, and collagen was injected into their lips while high powered Liposuction vacuums sucked out their stomachs. Five inch stiletto heeled Manolo Blahnik pumps were issued to the elite front line sex troops. Disco music and Quaaludes were invented, as was Angela Jolie and those DVD’s starring Jenna Jameson and the Vivid Girls. Victory was close at hand for the pro-sex forces.

But the right wing assholes weren’t going to give up without a fight and countered by inventing AIDS, Tom Delay, the Seattle sound, and those little white puss-filled sores that grow on your dick.

This brief history brings us to the present. Battle lines are clearly drawn and even I find myself forced to get off my couch in front of the television set and make a stand. Feeling that it is my patriotic duty to fight the good fight I go down to the local Army recruiting center downtown right behind the Greyhound bus terminal. I walk up to the Sergeant.

“I’d like to enlist in the Army,” I say proudly.

“Which side do you want to fight for boy?” the Sergeant asks.

“For the forces of good sir,” I respond sticking out my chest and snapping to attention in an attempt to impress my hopefully future employer.

“Which one of the forces of good?” he questions spitting out a chaw of chewing tobacco in my direction.

“You mean there’s more than one?” I ask, baffled.

“Of course there is son - and we handle both of them here.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes we do both pro and anti fucking recruiting here.”

I’m totally bewildered. “How can you do that?”

“Well it’s due to a little known provision of that stupid law Congress passed which made everybody put handicap parking spaces everywhere - even when they isn’t a cripple within five hundred miles. You see when you take that legislation and couple it with the recent spate of corporate mergers and subsequent government downsizing we are now required to handle both sides here. So what I need to know is are you one of them good old Christian fighting men with a Ryder truck filled with fertilizer and a few crates of AK47 assault weapons; or are you one of them weak ass pussy hounds out for a good time?”

“Um, I’m one of the pussy hounds out for a good time,” I admit sheepishly both from not understanding a word he said and from not being macho enough for his liking.

“Okay pretty boy, sign here and report to room 666 for your physical.”

So I take the elevator upstairs and go down the corridor to room 666. I recall there was something about the number 666 in the Bible but I can’t remember exactly what it was all about. I open the door and I’m stunned.

There is an extremely huge breasted woman in a black leather catsuit reclining on leopard print chaise lounge and sipping a glass of champagne. “Are you here to fight the good fight?” she purrs while getting up and caressing me in a place which responds quickly to her attention.

“Yes ma’am, I’m here to take the physical.”

“Well let’s administer the physical exam and see if you have what it takes. Drop them,” she orders, sinking to her knees.

Well suffice it to say I pass the rigid examination. I’m immediately assigned to the Sodom and Gomorra division of the United States Army.

Basic training is hell but is nothing compared to my first mission which, according to my commanding officer, is going to be my last mission as well because it’s a suicide run. I’m issued a blowup doll with three motorized lifelike orifices which is supposed to look like Michele Pfeifer but actually more resembles the victim in the Black Dahlia murder case. I’m also given a box of condoms, two hits of Rohypnol, Roman Polanski’s autobiography, the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogue, a coupon for half priced dinners at Hooters, a platinum American Express card, and most importantly the keys to a brand new fully loaded Ferrari with reclining leather seats.

I am also given a fistful of pardons and ordered to drive my car to the Sybil Danning Women’s Federal Prison in Hollywood, California. Every inmate there, with the exception of one token two hundred fifty pound Roseanne Barr look-alike dyke, is a five foot nine Amazon with big breasts dressed in the traditional women in prison uniform of hot pants, tank top and high heels.

My orders are to try and get laid while somehow breaking the whole convict population out of jail, thereby unleashing a wave of wanton women upon the right wing Christians. My commanding officer claims this will demoralize them and cause them to surrender.

It’s too bad I won’t be around to see the end result, but like that other Son of God, Jesus, I too will have fought the good fight and died a martyr for your sins. I may however have just a little bit more fun at it than my predecessor.


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