Nov
15
2009
Forgive me Rosie O’Donnell, dictator of all things homosexual; but I just can’t wrap my pretty little head around this concept. Isn’t the whole point of becoming a lesbian, to be with another human being who displays extremely feminine qualities? As in girls who like other girls. Wasn’t that the whole point of investing in that dual dildo to begin with? Last time I checked, a person draped in lumberjack apparel, sporting a mullet, and hanging out in aisle 8 of The Home Depot; is usually named Earl. Not even close to resembling a female of any sort! Sporting Earl’s style for a woman makes you one stinky ball sack away from being a full fledged male as far as I’m concerned.
Therefore, I had to draw some deep conclusions as a result of my string of unasnwered questions. What made two completely butch women give up the glorious cock? Well, I’ve come to the realization that you can’t possibly need to be weened off of something you were never on. I do mean that literally in this case. It seems to me, that butch lesbian couples are simply made up of two ugly chicks who could never get laid by a guy. And as a result had to scissor each other in college just to get off. Moreover, even after the college days are over, the two um ‘women’ are sort of stuck together for life. This is on account of the rest of the human population’s need of a flag pole to even consider fucking them. Eventually however, a very romantic relationship blossoms between the two Bob Villa look-a-likes. Butch and Butcher live happily ever after conjoined at the FUPA in their DIY home. And even though I still DON’T get it, I must admit that their activity of ‘caulking’ things around the house, although worlds away from my idea of the action, is quite heartwarming nonetheless.
I’d love to give you all a more detailed version of my theory but there’s only so much research I’m willing to do in this mullet infested field. Even I draw the line somewhere as far as my investigative journalism is concerned. And that of course includes venturing into prisons to observe these butch types up close. I am not up for becoming Bertha’s lovely bitch; and don’t wish to consummate our relationship with broom rape. So I’m just going to stick with the belief I previously stated; and support these questionable looking women in their decisions to join hot pockets.
I’ll even completely support their union in marriage, when it becomes legal. My only question in that area being: When they do go ahead and get hitched; how do they decide who wears the flannel pants in the relationship?
All douche bags are like Halloween candy. They come in every single size and flavor imaginable. I personally prefer the fruity kind.
Oct
13
2009
My gym time is probably the happiest hour of my day (refined Patron tastings and/or fucky fucky time excluded). I love to take an hour or so to myself to focus on burning off the calories that accumulate because of my drinking habits. That’s really the only goal of my hours battling the elliptical, because I’m not a health freak by any means. So during this ‘me time’ you can only imagine the disgust I feel once I am forced to come across the token ‘Gym Jackass.’ I am absolutely not referring to the many guys I end up speaking to at the gym which may be jacked, but still sweet as can be. No, we all know the token douche bag. Which no one really ever wants to talk to. The image of him in his stretched out Hulk Hogan wife-beater hits me harder than a pair of balls. However, upon further investigation, conducted by the pec machine, I’ve noticed that even these douche bags have sub divisions.
1) The first type of Gym Jackass was never the high-school jock who ‘tackled’ half of the cheerleading squad and possibly even the hot English teacher. Nope, back in high school this was the nerdy guy who spent his afternoons playing Dungeons and Dragons; and making fun of poorly written math problems. He was built like Mary Kate Olsen in his youth, and now he’s trying to show everyone that he can finally develop a muscle. Because he’s convinced that his graduating class all still really cares. (Note: I suspect that excessive muscle in this breed of douche is developed in compensation for the facial hair he is still unable to grow)
Unfortunately, however the douche’s geeky side is still very much alive. This Gym Jackass will try and impress you with his health-freak ways and offer up advice you never asked for. A year back or so, I was forced to sit through his impromptu seminar next to the exercise bike.
Douche : ” Yeah you know what I really recommend: I’ve been trying to eat every two hours now. Like a handful of almonds. You should look into trying that”
Me: “Yeah, you know the thing is, I’ve tried to do a mouthful of nuts every two hours before. It really didn’t do much to settle my appetite, but I did make lots of new friends.”
2) Secondly, we of course have the token dumb jock that never grew out of it. He thinks lifting hundreds of pounds can still compensate for the fact that he has yet to lift a book in his life. The only thing he’s been reading is the back of the Muscle Milk container before he makes his protein shake every morning. The only protein shake I would consider beneficial that early in the AM, better have the morning after pill sprinkled in it. Add some vodka. That way I can even re-name it: The Proteini
Typically, while this Beefcake is going about his usual workout he’s enamored with his own reflection in the mirror. Sometimes. he gazes over his body as if the mirror was a portal into Megan Fox’s vagina. Checking out every single muscle isn’t exactly hard to do either, as he insists on wearing a very awkwardly stretched out wife beater. You know, the type in which the straps hardly cover his perpetually hard nipples. His eyeing of himself screams “I’d fuck me.” It really is disturbing too see a grown man prance around the gym like a teenage girl who just got her tits.
The only thing that distracts the Beefcake from his own pecs, is the sight of a female doing anything remotely sexual looking. I especially don’t appreciate it when I take a break from a set of crunches to take a few gulps from my bottled water to see this dickhead starring at me. He keeps eying me as if it was my dirty little idea to suggestively stay hydrated during my workout. From this moment on, it’s crucial to avoid making eye contact. If you do, he’ll quickly rush over an offer to help you stretch. Considering there is only part of my body he’s actually interested in, I strongly reject the stretching offer. Hands off douche bag, I have no desire to resemble the Octomom. The key to escaping them is by gently insulting the chicken legs he is most likely hiding under those baggy sweats; then running in a zig zag pattern away from him before his roid rage takes the best of him. I lost my IPOD once during a sprint like this; it’s no laughing matter.
3) Lastly we have my absolute favorite type of Gym Jackass: The Rich Silver Fox! These fifty something men are going though the infamous mid-life crisis. Stage one of which includes buying a sports car; and stage two ‘getting back into the shape of their lives.’ Sadly enough the ball sack never really bounces back.
Douche: “Hey sweetheart, I’m old enough to be your daddy”
Me: “Well yeah I know, but I can still call you daddy!”
The other wonderful thing about this buff silver fox is that his pick-up lines range in entertainment value; based on the degree of his early onset of dementia. Most recently, while I was mid crunch, I have gotten this:
Douche: “Wow, has anyone ever told you that you look like a movie star?!”
Me: “Uhh um no, no I don’t think so, no, definitely not under these conditions. No”
I’m sure a simple ‘thank you’ would have sufficed, but I was so perplexed. It took me a good five minutes to figure out what movie star could possibly resemble my mid-work out appearance. I finally settled at a startled looking Jim Bellucci.
4) Lastly, we have the holistic fuckers. I don’t have a HUGE problem with them and their yoga mats; but every now and then they do annoy me. I would kindly point out to them, on occasion, that they are in fact on the bicep machine and perhaps getting in the downward dog position on it is not the smartest move. They don’t care about my somewhat snappy remarks. They are flexible enough to blow themselves; doubt they’re in the market for any more friends.
Well of course the gym isn’t always a complete sausage fest. And although many times it really is just a bunch of guys taking entirely too much time in between sets to eye each others balls; the occasional woman gets in the mix. I don’t typically notice them, since they share my same type of genitalia; but in some cases completely ridiculous looking bitches catch my eye. And then make me want to pour bleach in it.
1) The first type of female douche bag, I like to refer to as Butch Betty. This is simply because she can win an arm wrestling match with 99% of the WWF. I try to avoid this beast because I can see that she can easily snap my neck between her ass cheeks. I’m not ashamed to admit that butch women scare the shit out of me more than any horror movie you can muster up. This initially, irrational fear most likely stemmed from Rosie O’Donnell. But it has slowly progressed as I have worked out along side of women who bench pressed twice my body weight. As much as I try to stay out of their line of vision, I would never be apposed to running into one in the locker room. That way I can finally settle the pre-op/post-op debate in my head once and for all.
2) Secondly, we have the douche bags who seem to go to the Salon before gearing up for their ‘work out.’ We all know the type. Their hair is blown out to perfection, make-up slabbed on by the pound, and slutty clothing strategically stretched over each ass cheek. In most cases these women are not only over the hill; they are rolling off the fucking hill, clinging to their plastic surgeon on the way down. Their faces are virgin-tight, and botox filled. The only thing they really have going for them is usually (not always) their bodies.
I applaud them for keeping their bodies looking right, although sometimes it can be a bit deceiving. An optical illusion of sorts. Fellow gym goers see something attractive from a distance. They zero in on the ass, g string hiked up to its regular positioning below the bra clasp. Arousal and intrigue set in and BAM! The bitch turns around and something resembling Joan Rivers is suddenly smiling back in the innocent bystander’s direction. I’ve seen many people fall off the tred mill due to this horrific experience. It makes the gym a rather dangerous environment, which I think should be prevented. Perhaps make there douche bag queens paste a warning sign of sorts on those faux snake skin spandex pants of theirs. “WARNING: GOOD FROM FAR, BUT FAR FROM GOOD.” Someone should tell them to go shopping for their gym clothes somewhere other than the Stripper Depot.
3) I promised myself that I wouldn’t discuss this last type of female jackass until my issues are resolved. But the horrors I have witnessed must be shared with the rest of the world. I must warn you all of the one place in the gym you must avoid at a certain time of the day. Don’t thank me. Just spread the word to your friends, neighborhood hookers, family members, children, and even drug dealers.
My story starts as I enter the double doors of the gym. I give them my card to scan just like every other day. I don’t notice that I am a mere five minutes late this morning as I naivly march to the locker room. On the way I catch a glimpse of the pool out of the corner of my left eye. The view of a single swimming cap floating in the pool instantly triggers terror. I panic because I know what this means: The Senior Women’s Swimming Aerobics Class just let out; and I need to hit the locker room before they decide to hit the showers. I try and find a way to go around the dungeon, and at this point changing into my gym clothes in the main room is starting to sound like a good idea. Unfortunately, I had to decide against it seeing as I foolishly forgot my rape whistle in the glove compartment of my car, and I suspect desperately needing it when bending over to pull my pants up. So I realize I just have to suck it up, and I dart into the locker room faster than a Nigerian Gold Medalist.
WARNING: The scenes to follow are not appropriate for any audience. The ocean of senior citizen FUPA I had to battle in order to make it to my locker, can only be outdone by a gory scene out in a SAW movie. I tried my very best to look down while I was walking; but they make it like an obstacle course of saggy tits for me. I tried desperately not to step on any boobs, and finally made it to my safe haven a.k.a: locker. Minutes later, I run out of there; my IPOD shoved between my tits and my hair tousled as if I just had a nooner in my backseat. I look down at my sweat pants, which I managed to put on backwards in the midst of the commotion: upon this observation I take a moment and briefly thank God that I never caught on to the trend of buying sweats that say ‘Juicy’ on the ass. Obviously that non verbal message would have caused further disaster.
Perhaps these women are old enough to be my great great grandmother’s mother; but they ARE gym jackass nonetheless. They have earned the title by frolicking though the locker room in their ‘vintage’ Birthday suits…circa 1899.
In most cases, the different kinds of Gym Jackasses do very little to improve my overall already grim disposition. I honestly try to avoid conversation with them at all costs by sporting my headphones at all times…sometimes they’re not even plugged into anything.
Sep
28
2009
Guys.
We all know a guy who abuses the privilege of instant messaging like a lethargic hooker. This marks a fairly new breed of douche bags that find pleasure in annoying the shit out of women through the use of modern technology. Whether it’s AIM, or my personal favorite: Facebook; these IM morons harass women whenever they like while in the comfort of their mother’s homes. This making them yet another flavor of DOUCHE BAG!
Perhaps the most cock-sucking fact about these douche bags, is the fact that because they are not speaking to you face to face; suddenly their balls nearly triples in size. A seemingly innocent conversation evolves from something that appears to be ripped out from the pages of a cheesy romance novel; to finally something resembling an interview with Howard Stern. Often the transition happens so quickly that you’re totally caught off guard. This results in completely missing the point at which the banter transforms from the super douche simply inquiring about your day, to him blowing a load all over his Dungeons and Dragons inspired mouse pad.
Moreover, because bull shitting is a hobby of these douche bags they have yet to master in the least; lies they blurt about their own sexual capabilities are about as believable as Lindsey Lohan’s sobriety. Recently, I had a quite alarming conversation with this sort of IM moron through Facebook chat. Before I get into it, I would like to address those people who are most likely thinking at this point, “Well why didn’t you just ignore him then?” A logical question, I must admit.Well, after much thought I concluded the answer to be a lot simpler than many may think it to be… Because I am an asshole.
The conversation began with the typical boring question. “How was your day?” I begrudgingly told him that my day went “okay.” Just like it was okay yesterday, and shockingly even the day before that.
(While flooding these douches with my one word responses; I’m all the while thinking that I’d be more inclined to share the interesting low-points/high-lights of my day with the Dr. Phil wanna-be on the local radio station. At least then I’d have a chance to win tickets to the Bucks County River Country; located not too far from my house. A place I consistently feel on the same page with because their slogan is “Where we love to see you wet!” That makes the two of us Bucks County River Country! I hope you can deliver, and are not just a huge twat tease).
After the initial question, just as unexpectedly as sleeping with a premature ejaculator the first (and always only) time; the conversation took the aforementioned down-turn. Super Douche decided to woo me:
Super Douche: ” So you know baby I can last for hours in bed. At LEAST four 
”
Me: ” Oh yeah? You sure you’re doing it right?”
Super Douche: “Lol if you climaxing 4 times is doing it right, then yes I think I am. You’d love four hours of sex.”
Me: “Well, I beg to differ on account of me not possessing an iron vag”
Super Douche: ” I’ve never had any complaints. My last girlfriend loved it. I once lasted 8 hours with her.”
Me: ” Wow, I’ll give it to you, sounds like a fucking problem. The hotline says to call 911 for erections lasting more than 4 hours…”
Super Douche: ” Haha very funny! Are you kidding me?! 8 hours of sex straight you’d fall in love with me!”
Me: ” Doubtful. I’m pretty sure I reserve the right to put a call in to The Special Victims Unit after hour 3. Let alone 8.”
Super Douche: “lmao! Don’t’ worry you’ll like it baby. I’ll tell you what else I’m going to do to you…”
Me: (after an alarming gag reflex to his previous statement) “Unfortunately that’s a no-can-do seeing as I am saving myself for my soul mate: Rick Ross.”
(I’ve mentioned in an earlier posting that Rick Ross is go-to guy to put an end to any conversation that must immediately conclude for the sake of my sanity).
It is in this nature that I try to grapple with the Super Douche. Some are extremely receptive to my ways; while others are about as sharp as plastic spoon, and never catch on to the final message. But regardless the battle must be fought everyday by women all over the world. One can only hope that the fine day will come when the mother’s of the super douches come along and take away their internet privileges. Forcing them to pleasure themselves to the Sears catalog they have stashed under their mattresses.
Ladies.
I always insist on turning the tables on the opposite gender as well. We are all well aware of the fact that if women said sexually explicit things to men over the internet without warning, in order to get laid; straight guys would kick off their very own parade. But unfortunately, this is not the case. Does this make women unsusceptible to the IM moron virus? No my friends, it does not.
The condition just appears to have completely different symptoms when it surfaces in the female race. You’ll see this often result in a characteristic I have spent a lifetime warning people about: CLINGYNESS! Yes, I am talking about the clingy bitches on the internet! The chicks that just don’t seem to get a clue that you have more interest in holding a conversation with your great-grandmother about adult diaper brands, over even the shortest exchange with them.
When clingy bitches assault other women via the internet; there’s really very little we can do. Like it or not we’re stuck being bombarded with comments (or email after email) of a detailed description of her boyfriends sleeping habits and her puppies diarrhea. (or vice versa). Try as we may, as women, we are stuck. So unless you want to tell this asshole-itch of a human being to fuck off; the situation is helpless. (Note: in most cases telling them to fuck off is ineffective because it will only result in them spending another three hours describing to you how you hurt their feelings. While you anxiously attempt to text a suicide hotline while they ramble).
Men, these clingers are your worst nightmare. Especially the ones you either have porked, or considered porking. They take every chance they get to say something when you appear online, or post something new on Facebook. And not only are these comments incessant; they are also completely MORONIC. Usually sprinkled with a half a dozen ‘lol’s and a barrage of smiley/winky faces.
Although you pride yourself by practicing safe sex most of the time; you somehow feel like you just acquired a hefty case of herpes which will never go away. And what do all men do? They make the initial amateur mistake of pulling away. Men react by becoming colder and more abrupt with these grade A clingers. The reaction that follows is overwhelming because the already clingy bitch goes into PANIC MODE! She accelerates the comments and IMs, until a guy can’t go a whole 10 seconds without his BlackBerry vibrating harder than my special ‘Rabbit’ friend.
Well listen up gentlemen! I’m here to unleash the secret. There is only one thing that will make the clingiest of bitches never speak to you again. And I don’t mean performing the ‘Angry Pirate’ or ‘Dirty Sanchez’ on her. God only knows what someone like tha is into.
The key is, instead of becoming more distant (which fails like a dumb slut in Honors Calculus), do a 180 and become a huge menopausal woman! Take the moodiest female you have ever met in your life and mimic her as if your trying to win a fucking Golden Globe. Alternate from being overly-emotional and possessive, to completely bitchy and pouty. If you can master the transition to take place at least a few times a day; the clingy bitch herself will want nothing more to do with you by the end of week one. Guaranteed. In fact, she will most likely deem you the clinger in the end, and convince herself that it was her idea to cool things off between the two of you.
This skill is intricate and takes many years to master. However, if you do, you officially reach sensei status of clingy bitches. A title I’ve held a black belt (equipped with a taser attachment) in, for days now.
Or you can always just sleep with her sister. Either one should do the trick.
It is important to pay homage to the fine alcohol enthusiast who invented the Mimosa. Allowing people all over the world to booze before noon; all the while consuming a healthy dose of vitamin C.
Cheers to you kind sir.
Sep
27
2009
Teaching:
It’s quite obvious that I have very little business shaping young minds; mostly because I’m still shaping my own. The goal being that by 30 it resembles a penis shape of sorts
The fact remains, however, that I did work with kids several years back as a martial arts instructor. I call these two blissful years: natural birth control.
My experience teaching them wasn’t all that bad. Truth be told, when I was not horribly hungover, I found some of them mildly amusing. Eventually, however, I realized that although kids can be cute sometimes; generally, I don’t really like most of them. Most, not all. I am, however, saying that almost all can be real assholes. Furthermore, if I’m being completely honest, I’d have to say the blame goes directly on the parents. Hear me out on this one…
Its not your God awful parenting itself that turned your child into the bain of everyone’s existence; its the fact that the ‘annoying prick’ gene is apparently dominant. All of it is actually quite simple if you take a moment to think of all the adults you know that are complete jackasses. Right away I can think of 30 just off the top of my head. Now consider this, with all those jackasses mating at an unnecessarily rapid rate…whoever thought their spawn would result in a tolerable human being? That’s right, its nearly impossible. Just wait and see what John and Kate’s 8 turn into. A gang of douche bags equipped with retarded hairstyles and Ed Hardy t-shirts. Makes me nauseous just thinking about it.
So when I was pondering a career in teaching a few years ago, I came to the stark realization that I’d just be the biggest bitch. Way worse than any menopausal whore they show you on daytime television. I’d be especially abrasive on days that I come in irritated, or sick, or high; and they are giving me all their bullshit.
And you know there’s always one kid in every elementary school classroom named Jonah, who feels it is his duity in life to test the teacher’s moral character. By that I mean see if the teacher can resist the urge of chasing him around the room with a baseball bat.
The type of kid that would be a great hit on ‘Kids Say the Darndest Things’ but is simply not cute enough to pull of half the shit he spews. Inevitably he would ask questions like…
“Miss Elina! Miss Elina! Why aren’t you married?”
And although I’d always like to shoot back with a ‘Why don’t you mind your own fucking business Jonah. You don’t see me asking you personal questions about that castle you’ve been constructing out of your own boogers since October!!!’ I don’t. No, I try and exhibit some form of self control and squeeze out an answer resembling…
“Well Jonah, not everyone wants to get married.”
Just after a feeling of deep satisfaction sets in, for not going off on the little bastard, he always has to have a follow-up. Fucking little Connie Chung in training.
“No, because um my mom said that only ugly girls don’t get married.” Or something as equally offensive as that. At this point in time is when I would see myself losing all desire to maintain my teaching license. My anger toward the little daemon child’s mother would become misplaced, and I’d very calmly answer him.
“Well Jonah, actually, that’s because your mother is a whore.”
“She is not a whore!”
“She is to Jonah! She is to! Just ask Mr. Bryant the gym teacher!”
“What? Mr. Bryant” (Tears start forming when they see that you have won).
“Sorry Jonah, I really hate to break this to you on your 7th birthday like this, but we all have to find out sometime.”
Then once I showed the obnoxious leader of the pack who’s boss, I’d make sure every last one of the rest of the fuckers know not to mess with me on Fridays. After all, its right after Thirsty Thursdays, that’s just blatantly disrespectful.
“If anyone else has anymore stupid questions, we’re having one long conversation about Santa following recess. Right after we read the results confirming the identity Jonah’s daddy.”
This scenario is precisely why I don’t see myself in a Grade school setting if I were to become a teacher. Stuffing Jonah into a locker would quickly lose its appeal and I would become incredibly bored.(On a related note: Don’t judge me, I would only rough him up a little, never even dream of taking his lunch money. His mother sucked entirely too much cock for that cash).
If I had to teach, I’d most likely teach at the high school level. I am completely aware of the fact that by this age all of the kids are already drinking and getting high; so I’m thinking right off the bat we’d have something in common. And although that’s all well and good, especially if one of my regular suppliers is away on business; I’d still take every single chance I get to fuck with them. Because, well ultimately. I don’t see myself taking a liking to this pimply-ass group of kids either.
I especially despise those compulsive honors kids. The over-achievers that are so concerned about getting into college, that they will go to any lengths for an A. Inevitably, asking stupid questions along the way like,”So what’s going to be on the test on Thursday?” Forcing me to look this girl Tracy in the eye, while squinting to avoid the glare coming off of her braces, and think of a way to answer her without making her cry…again. The point being that even if I knew what was on the fucking test I certainly wouldn’t tell her. Not to mention, I’d just have the teacher across the hall make them all up for me. Amazing what a faculty dining room blow job can get you.
But this Tracy type does not let up. She’s constantly running circles around you to see what she can do to get extra credit. Eventually, I’d see myself taking her up on her offer. Since she is very smart and more responsible than I; I’d put her in charge of making sure I take my birth control pills daily. That way she can do something that will benefit us both. Everybody wins. I would gladly pitch the idea, but her breed of high schoolers is so uptight that she would never agree to it. Forcing my frustration with her to mount until it reaches boiling point. Then I’d have to sit her down.
“You know what Tracy McBracy (my clever nickname inspired by the beastly metal in her mouth), you should really look into getting laid more often. I sincerely think it will make us all dislike you less.”
Truth be told, I really do feel like the slutty girls in high school are easier to get a long with. They don’t ask what’s on the test because they don’t care about the fucking test. The sluts use their text books to shove between the headboard and the wall. This way their fathers can’t hear how ‘daddy’s little girl’ is turning into ‘daddy’s little whore’ with the assistance of the entire football team.
Girls like Tracy don’t see the beauty in this. They are most likely saving their virginity for that ’special someone.’ Ugh. Nice sentiment I guess, we all held onto our virginity at one point or another in our lives. Some people still do; just saving up for the next clean looking hooker that crosses their path. But what I’d really like to tell girls like Tracy is that the first time is hardly ever worth waiting for. It’s not special in the least! Unless you consider wrestling Ira Goldman’s little penis inside of you special. I don’t. Sounds rather horrifying to me. Better lose it to someone who knows what he’s doing. And if that person just so happens to be the new gym teacher, well then so be it. I hear he’s getting sick and tired of Jonah’s mother anyhow.
So after pondering these various teaching scenarios, I’ve realized that not only should I never become a teacher; but perhaps staying within 500 feet of any school would be for the best. They sell shitty weed there anyways.
As a seasoned driver, one learns that when the choice is between front seat airbags and back seat funbags; safety must always come second
Sep
26
2009
COUGARS:
At some point, banging a person of your own generation lost its appeal. I would venture it was most likely around the time modern medicine made great strides in the plastic surgery field. As a result, we now have porking that transcends through all different age groups. If I had to sum this movement up in one Hallmark Card, it would go something like: ‘Shit, even nana is getting hers.’
Because of this bizarre, yet fascinating phenomenon we are left with a very special breed of woman: The Cougar. I have been studying this creature in a habitat she must thrive in, in order to maintain her craft: the gym. Aside from bars and lounges, this is a place where you will find these fuckers on their downtime. As in, when they are not looking for young boys to devour. Now I know this all sounds well and good to the obnoxiously horny crowd. An older and incredibly attractive woman wants to fuck your brains out of your head and onto the headboard; most guys are up for the challenge. Hell, I’ve even considered getting pounded by a silver fox myself. But there are a few warning signs you must be aware of so you don’t get in over your genitals.
Pros of engaging in a genital embrace with a COUGAR
1) One word: EXPERIENCE! Know that a seasoned cougar will know her way around your junk. She’ll navigate your shit like a treasure map. I of course use the term ‘treasure’ here quite loosely. Keep in mind that she’s seen more dick in her lifetime than a guy serving a life sentence in a maximum security prison. So no matter whether your hiding a jack hammer in your pants, or if it’s in fact a little 4 incher your concealing; she can get the job done. She’s serviced more men than the local gas station and it’s your turn at the pump baby. (Just make sure you state cash or credit before you fill her up).
2) She wants it…badly. A woman reaches her sexual peak at the age of 40. And to be honest men around that age have more problems delivering than the stoner working for Pizza Hut. They may have what it takes, but they’re only really able to work so hard because they reach their sexual peak at the ripe old age of 18! Aint that some shit?! Well it is indeed. So here you have it: a hot cougar, and she’s craving a dick that will work efficiently. And even maybe put in overtime when needed.
3) There’s really no wooing to be done. I mean you still have to be playful and charming, but don’t expect to have to wine and dine her too much to get your Cougar to put out. One Margarita at Fridays and her ankles will be hooked to her hoop earrings within minutes. It gets a little awkward for the bartender at this point but you slip him a tip, and he will keep his eyes averted as you guide her our the front door… while carefully trying not to drop her by balancing her on your dick. For those of you who are truly blessed, no hands necessary.
4) You don’t have to worry about getting her pregnant. Now, before you argue hear me out. It’s not that she can’t get pregnant, her eggs are yet to pass expiration date. Just because they won’t make the brightest omelet… I mean kid, doesn’t mean it’s impossible. But you can be damn sure that if the Cougar says she’s on birth control, she’s taking those pills like clockwork. The last thing she needs to balance with her already busy life, and kids that might be slightly older than you in age, is another fucking kid. As fond as she may be of you below the waste, she does not want some pimply ass intern to father her next child. In addition, she also refuses to let those long spent hours at the gym sucking off her trainer go to waste. Those were some serious squats she did over his dick, and mothering your child is not worth making all that work good for nothing within a matter of months.
5) Lastly, this cougar has something to prove! Not necessarily to you, or the rest of your softball team for that matter. She has something to prove to herself. Some sort of inner validation that tells her she can still ride a dick with the best of them at 40. Yes, the Cougar is on a mission to prove that she’s still hotter and more flexible than the other moms in the PTA. She’s here to relive her glory days on the tip of your iceberg.Go with it. Even if she happens to scream out “Yeah Bobby give it to me, see this is why you should have taken me to prom over Tracy Clark.” Just let her have her throw back moment. Pay no attention to the fact that your name is not Bobby; and more importantly, thank Tracy Clark for not being a whore.
Cons of engaging in a genital embrace with a Cougar.
1) Her husband. Given, that she is not separated or divorced; you may just have to make a new ‘friend.’ Make sure he does not have a gun. If he does, learn how to run fast…and preferably in a zig-zag like motion.
2) The kiddies! Make sure that under no circumstances do those kids of hers find out that there is a guy, that is old enough to be in their graduating class, putting a smile on their mothers face everyday.( Among other things). See because it’s really only the teenagers that will give you a problem. Last thing you need is the little pot head punk getting all hormonal on you, and kicking your ass on the front lawn. And if it’s a teenage daughter, well, I certainly hope you make sure she’s 18 before you entertain any further thoughts!
3) Vagina. After a certain number of kids, and a decent amount of mileage over the year, it’s not what it used to be in it’s glory(hole) days. One could only hope that the cougar keeps up with her kegels as strictly as she does with the rest of her workout regime. But in most cases, make sure not to be surprised if it ends up being like throwing a pencil down a well.
4) Read carefully, this is perhaps the most important warning of all. In some cases, you will run across a serious CLINGER ALERT with these women. Worst of all it will completely blindside you. It’s been known to happen, when a cougar starts out just wanting to fuck, and then goes completely bat-shit crazy on your ass. Well, this is where it goes terribly wrong: When you start fucking a cougar more than the standard, once a week, she gets a little taste of what it would be like to have you around more often. To fuck, to show off to her book club, and well just a sort of self validation. Once they decide you are what they want, they will stop at absolutely nothing to get you to feel the same fucking way. At this point you have very little choice, and I can only suggest scoping out your options in a witness protection-like program.
So in the end, a cougar can be compared to fine wine… better with age, but too much of a good thing will earn you nausea and a headache. (As long as it’s not herpes).
There are two types of people in this world: those who like to get wined and dined; and those who like to get paid and laid. But since life is a lot of give and take, I suggest we all get wined and laid.
Sep
26
2009
Inter-Community Banging:
“Old pussy.” Okay, I know the initial statement is enough to turn even the fattest fuck into an involuntary bulimic. But stick with me for a minute because I am not referring to a pet name I devoted to Joan Rivers. Rather, this is a term a guy friend of mine used when expressing his dismay in his mission to get laid as of late. Although, he is consistently exposed to a variety of drunk bitches… they seem to be the same ones every single night. They’re essentially completely over-used goods; and chances are even if you’ve never slept with them you’ve most likely seen them naked at one point or another regardless.Hence, the God awful yet appropriate term of ‘old pussy.’ This occurs for him because his line of work forces him to stay in a very specific community of people. Therefore he is hardly ever exposed to females that possess all the qualities listed below:
1) A girl he hasn’t already fucked
2) A girl who does not have a big mouth and is not friends with someone he’s already fucked
3) One who is not currently fucking one of his ‘boys’
4) One he’d gladly fuck without the assistance of a 10 foot poll. And finally,
5) A girl who’s STD test results are cleaner than the Jonas brother’s urine samples.
This conversation got me thinking about how complicated inter-community fucking can potentially get. It’s like a whole communal gang bang phenomenon.
Those who live in or around the city of Philadelphia are especially aware of the ’small-community’ dilemma. For it seems that every time you go out; you meet people who are most likely friends with others you already know. Before the formal introduction occurs, you have already heard enough about them that the handshake itself becomes a simple and at times offensive formality.
You of course say: “Hi ____ . It’s nice to meet you” All the while you’re thinking:
“Hi____.So I hear you’re the cum dumpster who collects more facials than the local day spa.”
Or when meeting a guy:” Hey____. So you’re the guy with the dwarfed dick which curves slightly to the left, and experiences the occasional failure to launch,”
You know everything about everyone before actually meeting the person. It’s not always a bad thing. Sometimes you have the distinct honor of meeting the sole reason behind ten of your closest friend’s prescriptions for Valtrex.I guess, better known to some, as “Patient Zero” or as I like to call it “Ho-Monkey Zero” Twisted, but truly inevitable when you participate in the block party orgy.
It’s one big incestual circle, and it poses quite the problem when you are in need of a good, clean porking. How am I supposed to fuck a random guy no strings attached if I know his dick was previously in the mouth of the chick standing across from me at the bar? A chick that is by no means a complete stranger. For I know of her, her reputation, and pretty much everything else about her short of her social security number. Based on this prior knowledge, I’m fairly certain that I would think twice before sharing a straw with her let alone a cock. And although you never truly know who’s been in who’s mouth…sometimes ignorance is bliss.
Therefore, fucking outside of your general circle of friends and community is the key to avoiding a slew of awkward moments and drama. Perhaps the last thing I want is someone’s psycho ex-girlfriend going bat-shit crazy on me for sleeping with her ‘man.’ She claims him as her territory because she once loved him despite the fact that he was a huge dick to her. And, well, I just want to ‘love’ him solely for the fact that he has a huge dick. Yet, when I try and explain this nuance to her it seems to only enrage her further, often causing her to foam at the mouth.
Despite my best efforts, she stays by her ownership as if she was a dog peeing around him to mark her territory. Which is absurd, because had he ever expressed his interest in ‘golden showers’ I would have flung myself out of his bedroom window and ran for the hills before my bladder was forced to participate in foreplay. So now, not only does the whole community know every single detail of your personal life and sexual preferences which may or may not include gagging; you now also have a rabid ex ‘inconspicuously’ circling your neighborhood who you would love to gag. This reigns true for both males and females. Fucking around in a tight knit group of friends or community is hardly worth the drama in the end. Unless of course it is all resolved in a civil and mature manner: Springer.
Guys,on many occasions it just saves everyone a lot of time if you go and get your dick sucked elsewhere. Don’t feel overwhelemed heading into uncharted territory. There’s no need to leave the tri-state area, or turn to Craig’s List for your search. It is possible to find a brand spanking new hook-up; because luckily for you, the world is sprinkled with a plethora of drunk and generous whores. Chances are if you haven’t been laid in a while, you can spot one from a mile away. Just follow the scent of cheap booze and Doritos. They’ll most likely be the ones bent over a bar stool while attempting to slurp their spilled alcohol out of their cleavage; just waiting to substitute the next shot of Jack Daniels with a shot to the face. At this point your job is simple: A) Make sure she’s not 16. B) Swiftly step in at this opportune moment as the stand-in ‘bartender.’ And finally C) Haul ass home before she sobers up and the pang of disappointment, resulting from your 1.5 minute performance time, sets in.
(An all too familiar pang all women have experienced at one point in their lives. Sadly, myself included a long, long time ago.
“Ohh, yesss, oooo, harder!… uhhhh what? Are you fuckin kidding me?!”
After months of therapy following my assault by Speedy Semen Gonzales I was even able to pin point the emotion that stands in between the initial shock and then the consequential deep disappointment. You just look up at him and you feel completely: left out.Someone just had a party in your very own ‘fortune cookie,’ yet your invitation was apparently lost in the mail).
On to the ladies. If you’re having a problem venturing out of the community and finding an appealing stranger to engage in the genital handshake with you;it may be time to re-evaluate some things. I say this because many men’s list of standards start with a pussy and top off with tits. With no points in between. If you truly can’t find a single male that will bang you; I suggest perhaps trying to look less beastly upon going out in public. A small suggestion that tends to go a long way. It also spares both parties an awful trip to the Super Market where the question of “paper or plastic”is instantly resolved with a resounding: “PAPER PLEASE!”.
I will finish this with one very significant point. If by chance, you find a person in the community of people you are in that is just as cool and down to fuck as you… AND keeps all dramatics to a bare minimum: For God’s sake don’t fuck it up. Few are blessed with this lucky and convenient set up. So please (unless we are speaking literally): don’t blow it, because in the future your decision will be a hard one to swallow.
Women and men can be completely platonic best friends under one condition: If both parties share an unwavering preference for the cock.
Sep
26
2009
There’s only one thing that brings me as much, if not more, joy in this world than alcohol and special brownies. And that ‘thing’ is simply a damn good porking.
Before I elaborate any further on this topic, let’s take a moment to examine the cold hard facts: single people need to get laid too. And since none of the singles I know fancy themselves Jonas Brother’s types; the idea of celibacy is about as appealing as tea bagging David Hasslehoff. (Note: if you had to think about the appeal in this previous statement feel free to stop reading now. I’m fairly certain that we’ll never see eye to eye)
Whether you want to admit it or not, the one thing a person tends to miss in a previous relationship is the guarantee of a good banging on a fairly consistent basis. Without having to pay for it. And when you wake up one morning to find that the free pussy/cock is gone, the world appears just a few shades darker. Inevitably, since all the happy tissue time in the world cannot solve this pressing issue, one must take the time to invest in a fuck buddy.
Although the concept of being single and getting laid with no strings attached should be a God-send to anyone with genitalia; one terrible breed of people stand in the way of that. They surround us on a daily basis, blow up our phones, stalk our Facebook profiles, and worst of all: try to cuddle with us every chance they get. Some call these people ‘the sensitive types.’ I give them a much more suiting title of clingy bitches!
I feel it is my public service to rid the world of these mid-fuckingly annoying creatures. This responsibility led me to conducting extensive research on the area, and I have much to report. So whether you have a clingy bitch on your hands, or think that you might be infected with this obnoxious condition; please take a moment to read the handbook I put together below. It may truly make the world of fuck buddies a safer place for us all; and finally allow us to fuck in peace.
Fuck Buddy Etiquette for the Clingy Bitches: The Handbook
Before I get into the handbook there are a couple of things I need to establish:
A) Yes, men can also be clingy bitches. Don’t believe me? I can introduce you to a few. As I’ve said in the past: “clingy men are a turn off, if I wanted to snuggle with a vagina for a few hours I’d fall asleep looking down.”
B) Fuck Buddies are not to be mistaken with ‘Friends/Acquaintances with benefits’ (occasionally fucking people you actually enjoy spending some time with) or ‘One night stands’ (fucking people once you will never see or hear from again). These are two equally special relationships that will be elaborated upon at a later date. After I do some more extensive research. Why? Because I care.
C) If you don’t think you are a clingy bitch and fully disagree with all points bellow, you’re perhaps the worst kind of them all. I highly suggest for you to undergo additional training before putting an ad out for a fuck buddy.
Steps on how to pick+maintain a fuck buddy:
1) Before you begin your search make sure you are NOT looking for a relationship. Not sure? This will help:
You can have no internal desire to cuddle (gag), hold hands, have romantic dinners, or daily phone conversations with a person of opposite genitalia. There are no exceptions here. Remember fuck buddies are perfectly ok without hearing your voice unless it’s screaming “Fuck me!” or any other variation of that. If you do talk to excess don’t be surprised if they try to convince you that gagging is a fetish of theirs… they just need you to shut the fuck up, and sticking a dick in your mouth is just not doing the trick.
The one exception is that you may speak about sports if you’re into them, also makes a great “balls” segway is many cases.
2) Pick someone you are physically attracted to. This may seem like a no-brainer to some but none of this “Buttt I like his/her personality!!!!” bullshit is acceptable. Your personality is about as important as a transsexual man’s ball sack at this point. They can take it or leave it and vice versa. Beauty on the ‘inside’ only counts if you are referring to the ‘inside’ of someone’s pants.
3) To elaborate on the last point I would in fact recommend someone you don’t even fucking like that much. This is NOT your friend or acquaintance you occasionally fuck, this is someone you will be seeing weekly. Having a good time together anywhere else but bed is harmful. It is important to find conversations with a door more interesting than with this person in order to tame your clingy side.
4) Proximity is important; no one wants to drive more than 20 minutes to get off. We all have shit to do. For example in those 20 minutes alone I can finish off a bottle of wine while polishing my dildo collection which I proudly display in my china cabinet.
5) Establish that ALL you will be doing is fucking. No movies and no dinners. Eat on your own time. There is only one thing that you should be eating/swallowing and it is not featured on restaurant menus.
6) Texts are acceptable but should resemble something along the lines of “Fuck me stupid!” or “Let’s play army, you lie down and I’ll blow the shit out of you” or “Let’s play Titanic, I yell ‘ICEBERG’ and you go down”
7) Take your own car/cab to the location of the fuckathon. No one wants to pick your ass up unless there is some sort of road head involved. Also, this way you can cum and leave as you please. Pun intended.
Be aggressive. Don’t wait for the guy to make the first move. It’s not gonna suck itself ladies!
9) Make sure the boning is good. It has to get the job done, both parties MUST cross the finish line.
10) Missionary position is unacceptable, we’re not making love here people. I suggest doggy. This way instead of gazing into each other’s eyes, you can bite into a pillow and muffle your screams… but enough about me.
11) There is absolutely no cuddling under any conditions! Ever. Nothing more than the 3-5 minutes of settling down and catching your breath. Then you get the fuck out of there faster than an Olympic runner. There is no reason for you to stick around for longer unless you need an ice pack for some sort of head board injury you suffered.
12) I cannot stress again how as fuck buddies we DO NOT spend the night! No one wants to see your ugly mug in the morning.
13) Lastly, ladies listen up! It’s true what they say, two heads are ALWAYS better than one. So invest in two fuck buddies. Pick a favorite and use the second one as a back up plan, or in case of emergencies.
Follow all these rules and you might actually stand a chance of getting laid on a regular basis by someone that doesn’t just want to stick a cock in your mouth for the sole purpose of shutting you up.
And remember: keep dating, relationships, and rings off your mind! (unless of course they are cock rings)
Get to FUCKING folks!
Sep
23
2009
The first night spent in the resort by my friends and the rest of Gabby’s bridal party was filled with more mixed emotions than a budding female lesbian in the female locker room. Some people were tired, others were hyper, and i was devious. In fact it was when my friends Cheeha and Katherine decided to go upstairs and get some sleep that my deviant behavior kicked in the hardest. Jane joined me in my sadistic ventures as we began thinking of ways to fuck with them while they were sleeping. Because the revelation of doing something to them only entered my head in between ingesting my fifth and sixth tequila shot, my ideas became more and more elaborate. And seeing as after ten minutes or so of drinking, the plot I had in mind could easily rival a Cirque Du Soleil production that may just end in impregnation, I decided to ask for some help.
Jane and I headed out to find my cousin, Markman, who just happened to be one of the groomsmen on the trip. He is the absolute king of pranks. Making Ashton Kutcher’s Punk’d look like something suitable for PBS in comparison. No one can beat him. And if they try they are certain to be repaid ten fold by something along the lines of a Fed Exed African baby package. And although I came to the conclusion that doing anything on a bigger scale will make for incredibly pissed roommates (who have easy access to my tooth brush and other toiletries). I just decided to do something small and mildly entertaining. The best part about Markman is that he certainly has a spectrum of pranks ranging wider than Clay Aiken’s asshole after a night of clubbing, from me to chose from.
Jane, eager to get the ball rolling, decided to open the conversation with him.
“Hey Markman. Elina and I really want to fuck with Cheeha and Katherine right now because they’re asleep in their rooms. Is there any way you can help us think of something?”
At this point its probably important to add a certain tid bit about my friend Jane. She isn’t the most outgoing or loud person by far. In fact she’s incredibly shy and sometimes talks in a volume that is probably only comprehensible to small animals. And although I wasn’t exactly sure what she said myself, while I was sitting just inches away from her, I could tell Markman was thrown for a loop completely.
I watched closely as he took a deep breath, shrugged his shoulders. and while looking down begrudgingly responded with, ” Uhhh well ok, sure, ok, I’ll guess help you.”
Confused as to why his reaction was so dramatic; I decided to elaborate on Jane’s question in a volume that was actually detectable to the human ear.
“Ok but I don’t feel like putting in too much effort I’m kind of plastered. Help us think of a small paractically harmless prank” I elaborated.
“Wait what? You want to play a prank on them?” he instantly responded.
“Yeah that’s what I said.” Jane chimed in.
“Hahaha” he started laughing with an almost relieved expression on his face. “Oh my God that’s much better. I originally heard Jane say. “Elina and I really want to fuck right now but Cheeha and Katherine are in our rooms. Can you help us?” he responded still relieved.
“Haha wow Markman.” I responded truly touched that he would have put forth such a great effort to get Jane and I layed. Even though I am his cousin and Jane, just newly engaged. I truly didn’t expect to have such a heart warming and bonding experience with my family member under these tequila driven circumstances.
And after this little scene, that would certainly give Growing Pains a run for its money, played out; Markman continued to play his role as the older role model. He simply suggested splaying seemingly used condoms all over their beds. And since I personally feel that condoms are only really good for practical jokes anyways I was sold.
I was off to assault my little friends with jizz sacs! Upon entering Jane’s room we saw that Katherine was wide awake and reading a book. And by that I mean I’m fairly certain she used this time to play with herself. But that’s neither here nor there.
The original game plane shifted as the prank was only to be played on Cheeha at this point, who was passed out like Lindsay Lohan after the Teen Choice Awards.
Jane and I gathered a condom from my vast collection and proceeded to do things to it with white moisturizer that no one should have to hear about. We then splayed it out on a piece of paper where we kindly scrolled the phone number of a friendly Mexican gentleman named Carlos. As I stepped back and admired our work, I announced to the girls.
” Aww you know its not that bad. Carlos turned out to be quite the sentimental lover indeed. Saving the condom and all.”
As I was greeted with looks of both concern and disdain from Katherine and Jane, who couldn’t help but wonder what qualified as ’sentimental’ in my twisted world, I quickly exited their room and entered into mine and Cheeha’s. Inside, I made sure to tip toe around and leave the little care package of sorts right on the night stand next to Cheeha’s bed. As I fell into a tequila induced sleep, I waited for morning with the anticipation of a kid on Christmas awaiting to see what the rosey cheeked fat ass brought them this year on the birth of Christ.
Needless to say I wake up the next morning to slight ruffling on Cheeha’s side of the bed followed by a simple and easy,
“Ahh good morning! Ummmm yeah, EW!”
That reaction alone was enough for me . And although Jane later tried to convince Cheeha (the most sober one of all of us the previous night) that she was in fact molested by the charming Carlos and sounds of thier love making resounded through the halls of our floor; her attempts were a failure.Nothing new there.
Later on in the morning, while sitting on the sandy beach, Cheeha reminisced of her supposed middle of the night romance.
“You know what Carlos and I shared was special guys! I really don’t appreciate you making a mockery of it!”
“Haha” I responded with a chuckle. Then quickly grew completely silent.
As the wheels in my head began turning (facilitated of course by my 10 AM mimosa). I came to a slightly disturbing realization.
“Hey Cheeha, did you um trash the paper with the condom and phone number?”
“Nope, I wanted to save it” she said with a smile on her face. “it’s probably still next to my bed because I wanted to take a picture of it”
I savored the moment of silence and bliss before I shared my realization.
“You know Cheeha the maid’s cleaning the room as we speak” I announce right before I start convulsing in laughter.
” Oh shit!!!!” Cheeha exclaimed as she suddenly sat straight up. All four of us began laughing at the sight of the discovery harder than we would have at that of a flaccid 3 incher.
As I settled my laughter I just hoped Carlos isn’t the maid’s papi chulo, or Cheeha will probably find his severed cock on her pillow instead of the daily chocolate chip mint.
Sep
23
2009
Several nights before Gabby’s big wedding day, we decided to go to a club in the city of Cancun.Picking a club to go to in the city is quite different. Turns out it’s a process that is undoubtedly harder than finding and negotiating with a descent hooker. Just walking down the streets you are bombarded by 30 different shady characters which swear up and down that they will get you into the nicest club with promises of no lines and open bar VIP. I’m fairly certain one even included his younger sister’s virginity in the package deal as well.
And after a good half hour of melting on the streets in the heat, the men of our party negotiated a deal that was more or less fair. But more importantly got us into the air conditioned club rather than the sidewalk which reached a temperature that could probably only compare to that of a leather banana hammock.
While we were squeezing our way through the crowd I quickly analyzed the huge two story club. And although the music seemed to be quite good, one look at the dance floor and I came to the grim realization that I’m not coming home with a Mr. Cancun story of sorts. That is simply because it was as if there was a Miley Cyrus concert based on the look of the faces gyrating on the dance floor. And it seemed that unless I was wearing braces and somehow managed to pull off the title of prom queen earlier in the evening; I’d easily pass as ‘Mrs Robinson’ to any of these fuckers. The drinking age in Cancun is 18, and it was clear that 16-18 year olds migrated there as soon as school let out, and their acne cleared up.
Marching up the steps I followed the rest of our friends to our ‘VIP’ area. As it turns out this area consisted of the two mismatched bar stools on the extreme left side of the bar. Possibly next to a trash can. And as we all placed our drink orders, I gazed into the crowd which lined the upstairs. Truth be told, I had to admit that this was an older looking bunch…of 5′2″ Mexicans. Great.
So naturally I had to cope the only way I know how: shots. And although the umpa lumpa sized shot glasses they brought made this task a little bit harder, I had to push through. At one point I even started to relax and dance. Making sure to always be checking around to see if anyone half my size was humping my leg.
A half an hour later or so, I am slowly turning my head back around from the ass safety check I was conducting on myself, I could have never predicted what was to follow. All of the sudden I hear this loud whistle go off in my ear. Then two little hands reach for my face. Squeezing it with such force that my mouth was able to pop right open. But before I could protest or say anything, a shot glass was shoved in there. And just like on many occasions before, I was forced to swallow.
“What the fuck?!” I managed to blurr out as my eyes focused on a younger Mexican woman putting the shot glass back in her apron along with the bottle she was using to pour with. Completely ignoring my earlier statement, she then proceeds to smush my cheeks, shake my tits, twist my nipples, and pat my vag. After all of that she lets out a “WOOOHOOOOOOOOO” and moves on to do the same to the person standing to my left.
There were no words, I was in sheer and utter shock. Seconds later, I managed to push all flashbacks I had with a similar experience of losing my virginity aside, and I looked over at the rest of the people from out party. By the look of their facial expressions, I could tell we were all feeling the same pang of violation.
“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?” we all pretty much said in unison.
But as the little Shot Ho tried to scam over fifty bucks out of us for forcing her disgusting drink down our throats, I noticed something even more disturbing. Her apron contained one shot glass, she undoubtedly used on every single person in the club. Well stick a pipe in my mouth and call me Sherlock Holmes, because that, ladies and gentlemen, is how fucking Mexico gets swine flu. (Luckily I did not.)
Ugh why can’t shot ho just go harass the Real World Cancun pukes who were currently having something resembling an orgy on stage. At least that would force them to shut the fuck up for the 2 seconds as a shot glass is inverted in their mouths. You know that or they could all just go blow each other. Either way works for me.
Managing to salvage the night after this spectacle, I began to dance with all my friends and the bride to be. Which got absolutely annihilated and decided to dance with just about every guy who walked by. Her fiance, Paul, would allow this to go on up until the men’s hands started traveling toward Gabby’s ass. Then he would kindly motion them over, buy them a shot, and introduce them to Katherine.
And after a good ten minutes of conversing with these um ‘eligible bachelors’ who seemed to have little to no grasp over the English language, Katherine would then inevitably have the same reaction.
“Hey Paul let me introduce you to my friend Katherine” she exclaimed while sternly holding up her middle finger. This went on with at least another three or four guys, until Paul realized Katherine’s next ‘friend’ she’ll be introducing him to migh just be a switch blade.
And although she was striking out for a potential threesome with Jesus, Horhay, and Pedro; I was making some moves of my own. As several guys who were of a seemingly decent age approached me, I headed over to their table. Which by this point was covered in vodka : a selling point This of course because at one point they rendered all shot glasses useless and started guzzling down the vodka straight out of the bottle.
“Heyyyy how’s it going waannna shot?!” The most attractive one of the bunch slurred in my direction. Typicalliy I’d be flattered. but matters that were out of my hands foced this situation to go south…
Now ladies, I’m sure you can relate to this very moment. It’s getting later in the night, and you actually see an attractive guy approach you. And although you can tell he’s three sheets to wind, you figure you can’t judge because well, you are too. But as they come up to you and speak their very first words you detect something so repulsive, and yet unfortunately not at all foreign. Yep, the smell of vodka mixed with VOMIT on their breath. DEAL BREAKER
As soon as I got that whiff, I didn’t even bother answering the question. I pulled a quick 180 and hauled ass out of Daddios in hopes of purchasing some weed down the street.
Now, I would have previously assumed that walking down the street in Mexico after a night of clubbing, finding weed should be about as easy as finding a man that can’t reach 5′4″ on his tippy toes. Not the fucking case!. In fact when finding weed was the only thing that would seem to put the appropriate ending to this questionable night, it was probably the hardest thing to do.
“Hey man!” Paul screamed out to a guy driving a pizza hut delivery bike.
Upon spotting the bike across the street, I was almost sure he’d have something to sell us in the ‘pizza container’ of his. Whether it be drugs, or perhaps a spare liver or kidney was still up for debate.
Although any of those organs would have instantly gone to shit, as Pizza Padre drove his bike into oncoming traffic. He came just inches away from death just to meet us on the opposite side of the street. Now that’s some serious devotion to your Pizza Hut job. I’m fairly certain the delivery boys in the states spend most of their time on the job playing with themselves in their nicely air conditioned cars. (Just another sad but true fact of life).
“Si, what do you need?” Pizza Padre asked with the intensity of a hooker that just got back on the job after a herpes induced sabbatical.
“Hey amigo you got any weed on you?” Paul asked without a doubt in his mind.
” Ohhh noo amigo no weed!” Pizza Padre responded with a look of pure fear on his face. “But I have pizza for nine dollars!” he continues on as he trails after us on his bike.
Moreover, as he sensed our displeasure and disappointment climbing in his insufficient weed supply, he decided to make up for it by bargaining.
” OK, ok, how about eight dollars amigo? I’ll give it to you for eight!”
A long ten minutes later. and our group would have been offered the pie for fifty cents and a piece of gum. However, we made sure to make it perfectly clear that our desire to devour a pizza that was almost guaranteed to give us the shits for the rest of our stay was at an all time low. And perhaps if Pizza Padre, wasn’t such a pussy and actually had some weed to sell us, we’d come back for that pizza once the muchies got the best of us.
But the truth was that Pizza Padre and the false hopes he provided everyone with that evening was hardly the person at fault here. No, I could only blame the Mexican government for waging the drug war that left me walking back to the hotel as clean as the cast of High School Musical.
I swore to myself that the next time I venture out in Mexico I’d pull the celebrity card to score some pot. I’d simply tell them all that I was Michal Phelps, and they are more than welcome to take pictures of me hitting the bong harder than a lazy hooker, and later selling them for thousands. I could totally pass. I’m sure all white folks look the fucking same to them anyways.
Sep
23
2009
Yes, turns out a tropical wedding on the beach is just as beautiful as it sounds like it would be. I would even say that it was THE most beautiful wedding I have ever seen. Even though it is a well known fact that nuptials make me queasy.
I, as the perpetually intoxicated bridesmaid was able to hold it together much better than anyone would have expected. I stayed completely sober through out the whole day and through the ceremony. Had I ever pussyed out and actually joined AA; this day would have left me with an extremely proud sponsor. In fact, I would even admit that after running around all day and taking pictures in the disgusting heat, booze was the last thing on my mind as I fought urges to strip off my gown in the 98 degree weather.
“One more picture” the photographer would yell. “don’t be afraid to look sexy” he kept telling me as I uncomfortably tried to figure out how exactly one would go about looking ‘’sexy in a bridesmaid dress.
Finally fed up with his remarks, the matron of honor snapped back, “Hey Alex! You want her to jump in the shower for you maybe?!”
“Nah we’ll do that later” he responded with a smirk.
My potential Mr. Cancun of the trip? I would rather die.
However, aside form the constant hasseling of the photographer and videpgrapher; the day went on flawlessly. Breath -taking and sentimental. Well, up until the throwing of the boquet that is. As the preperation for this idiotic ritual began, I knew that if it came flying toward me I’d sprint like a star running back in the NFL… in the opposite direction. But luckily I ,and the rest of the apathtic single women at the wedding, chose the one girl that acutally wanted to get married in the near future to stand front and center. So as the flowers came flying through the air, all we had to do was take a single step off center and watch her catch the bait. Beautiful.
At the end of the day, I became fairly certain myself that if I were to get married; I too would like it to be in Mexico. To a man named Jesus. So I can run around announcing “I’m a big Jew and Jesus loves me!” That would undoubtedly make me the female Jesse Jackson in the Christian community. Which sounds like a flawless plan B if my rap carreer fails to take off within the next couple of years. I smied at my future plans as I slurped up the remainder of my frozen margarita and stared into the vast blue ocean.
(On a side note I think it is important I inform you that since my return to the states, my career as a future reverend is no longer a possibility. I bring you this news with a heavy heart seeing as preaching to the Christian masses is not only a passion of mine, but something I’d be incredibly inspirational at. It seems that it wouldnt be fair to take this carreer path in leiu of a recent porkfest I participated in on Church park grounds. Spead eagle, in a backseat. Jesus was not happy).
Sep
23
2009
1) Extreme PDA
When in the company of others it is important to behave in such a away that does not result in condoms being offered up to you like the baseball dispenser at a batting cage. From the side its a lot like witnessing the ending of a disgustingly mushy chick flick over and over and over again. By the time the closing credits come on, you don’t know whether to throw up or punch you neighbor in the face. (The amount of buttered popcorn consumed usually decides this dilemma for you).
Plain and simple. A group outing is just not the appropriate time for you and your bitch to exchange handy-jay’s under the dinner table. Your ‘O’ face is a far from appetizing sight as it obnoxiously stands in the background of my sushi rolls. This vision alone is enough to trigger my gag reflex then and there, thank you very much. And to be completely honest, If I wanted to do that all I’d have to do is Google search Rosie O’Donnell photos. That’s really all it takes for smooth bulimic sailing from then on
Furthermore if I wanted to inspect a couple sucking face all night I would have stayed home and watched internet porn. The people tend to be better looking and way more talented at the genital handshake. Also, I am quite comforted by the ending of the porno rather than this bizarre PDA showing. At least in the first case scenario I know it will end with a rather predictable cum shot to the porn stars face. While in the second scenario, I may just end up having to shoot myself in the face.
2) The ‘Whipped Guy’
Yes, I am of course referring to the token guy or 6 that tend to develop a rather hefty vag after entering a relationship. In some cases of marriage for example, the extremely unfortunate men don’t only develop female genitalia, but a serious looking F.U.P.A as well. This is most likely due to the allure of a hearty home cooked meal. A rather clever scheme to promote home-confinement.
My favorite part is when they refuse to admit that they are a complete slave to the she- beast which rules their lives. The household dictator which decides everything for them, from the underwear they wear in the morning to the amount of special tissue time they are allotted each week. This sad fact of life is particularly evident when the whipped man schedules to go out with his group of friends. The pattern is always the same. For the weeks prior to the engagement he’ll pretend to have full intention of meeting you over the weekend. He will most likely even show more enthusiasm for these plans than any other person set to attend. And of course all this build up is almost always followed by a last minute phone call.
“Yeah turns out I can’t make it tonight after all. Something came up. Blows to be missing it, but I’ll catch you next time for sure.”
And although to them their excuses always seems to be just plausible enough to save face, to the rest of us it all sounds exactly the same:
“Blah blah blah. I’m a BIG vagina. Blah Blah Blah. She-beast locked me in the basement again. Blah Blah Blah I’ll call you when I get off my period.”
In short, we’re not dumb. All your single friends are well aware of the fact that unless your she-beast keeper has been mistaken for cattle and slaughtered earlier in the week, you never had the intention of actually coming out and you never will. We are all very well aware of the fact that your balls made a nice little garnish to the roast beef (or something equally offensive) she cooked up for dinner once again. Furthermore, to be completely and utterly honest we only keep the whipped guy around to make fun of him and his string of perpetual yeast infections.
3) Public Fights/ Bickering
Listen up. Unless one of you decides to go Chris Brown/ Rhianna on each other; I don’t want to see it. If a couple decides to fight out in public among their friends, there better be a sharp left hook or round house kick mixed in there somehow. In short, if it’s not UFC worthy, my desire to witness this ‘fight’ is about as high as my desire to tea bag Hugh Hefner. Low
In most cases, watching a couple bicker or fight makes everyone around them incredibly uncomfortable. We all sit there thanking God for our single existence. And while we’re at our prayer session, we are also willing him to make time go faster.
There is just one exception to this window of time in my life I’m never getting back. The exception is of course the presence of crying, Now that’s what I call a fucking show! In fact, the site of tears almost always makes me plop my ass right in front of you to see more. I will be sure to be facing you square on, hands propping up my chin, and grinning from ear to ear. Just PRAYING for someone to step up and start crying with sound. Simply because any kind of whimpering or sobbing coming from the chick (but especially the guy) is MONEY! Perhaps this little sick pleasure of mine makes me an insensitive bitch. But one must admit that watching two grown people bicker and cry over who forgot to clean out Mr. Jingles litter box earlier in the evening is absolutely hilarious.
So unless there is an intense physical fight or some serious Liftetime Network worthy crying involved, I don’t want to hear it. Do us all a huge favor and conduct your cat fights on you own time and in the privacy of your own homes. And for Gods sake leave Mr Jingles out of it!
4) Over-Sharing About Their Sex Lives
Plain and simple, my life was just fine without the added knowledge of the fact that my friend Bill enjoys the occasional finger or two in his asshole or getting his salad tossed. And I’m certainly not sleeping any better after finding out that Jessica gets off on getting gagged and beaten with a studded belt. Chances are that the sight of either one of the two in leather, ass-less chaps is enough to give me nightmares for the next 6 months.
I’m clearly all about talking about sex, but there are certain detailed secrets that are best kept locked up in that naughty drawer. Along with the anal beads and the penis pump.
5) Insisting On Doing EVERYTHING Together
Nothing saddens me more than the sight of a full grown man trotting though Victoria Secret while uncomfortably cradling a purple Coach purse. All the while he’s making sure to always be looking down. God forbid his 5′2″ female ‘owner’ catches him looking at a picture of Adriana Lima sporting the newest push-up bra. Hell will be raised and granny panties will be thrown in a fit of fury. There is no reason for a man to be subjected to this shopping ritual. And quite frankly, their broad frames are usually blocking my view of the lace thongs. (Which I happen to collect as enthusiastically as some horde stamps.)
On the other hand, another disturbing sight which fits into this category, is that of a woman at a sporting event she clearly has little to no interest in. This one I find particularly offensive because on more than one occasion my enjoyment of a perfectly good hockey game has been dampered by yapping from someone’s female counter part. This raping of my ears always tempts me to politely tap them on the shoulder and announce:
“Um excuse me ma’am would you mind kindly shutting the fuck up seeing as your grocery list is about as important as your husbands desire to live at this point.”
Sporting events are sacred to those of us who actually care. So I suggest either learning how to sign to one another, or shoving a sock/cock in it!
If any of these 5 characteristics sound like you, please seek help immediately! Re-evaluate your priorities, or don’t be at all surprised to find your tires slashed, or your beloved Mr Jingles missing for that matter.
Sep
23
2009
1) ‘Free’ Drinks At The Bar
There is no such thing as a ‘free drink’ anymore. Those days are long gone! If a guy decides to buy a woman a drink at the bar his intentions are very clear. He will stand there, not moving an inch, simply waiting for her to down every last drop. This way she’ll eventually get plastered, and he will have an empty receptacle on hand to empty his load in after she kindly jacks him off out back. There are no exceptions in this little tid bit. No one’s investing in your $10 apple martini unless they have something to show for it at the end of the night. And being in the presence of your ‘bright smile’ or your ’shiny personality’ is just not worth the exchange. (Note: by personality I am of course always referring to tits)
Women, never cautious about anything that is ‘free’ will take these men up on their offers consistently. Rookie mistake. Congratulations you have now found yourself a suitor that will follow you around for the rest of the night until they can persuade you to participate in any form of penetration. And who says chivalry is dead?
2) Men Who Haven’t Been Laid in a While
Men resort to truly sick practices when they haven’t had a decent blow job in a while. Or any blow job for that matter. In fact some resort to such lows that I had to address this topic immediately.
Please stop chasing your dogs around with that jar of peanut butter. It’s truly disturbing and not what I had originally thought when you swore up and down that you are a huge animal lover. Instead of harassing man’s best friend why don’t you sling that gross ball sack of yours into a pair of jeans and head out. Find some local bar and get a fat chick to lick the Skippy peanut butter off your dick instead. She’s probably hungry by the time last call comes around anyways.
3) Bisexual Men
This topic is one that gets my brain to work harder than Paris Hilton’s while trying to figure out new and improved ways to show the world her roomy ‘presidential suite’. How does a seemingly straight guy turn into a bisexual?! Wouldn’t any type of cock fondling automatically make him gay?? I can’t imagine a pussy lover wake up one morning and go:” Huh, you know I was thinking… Bill’s, from accounting, dick is looking mighty fine today. I think I might like to stick it in my mouth.”
Might as well just switch teams at this point as far as I’m concerned. Be proud of your new found love for cock. Prop up a rainbow flag in that cubicle of yours, wave it high! With any luck Bill will notice and send you his number, and before you know it, a romance will blossom. You can be the bottom to his top.
4) Extremely Butch Lesbians
I just can’t wrap my pretty little head around this concept either. Wasn’t the whole point of becoming a lesbian to be with another human being who displays extremely feminine qualities?! Last time I checked a person draped in flannel, sporting a mullet, and hanging out in aisle 8 of The Home Depot; is usually named Earl not the least bit female. That makes you one stinky ball sack away from being a full fledged male as far as I’m concerned.
Therefore, my conclusion is that butch lesbian couples are simply made up of two ugly chicks who could never get laid. And as a result had to scissor each other in college just to get off.
I will continue to investigate these deeply concerning topics as well as many more. And if my job application to CNN as Andersen Cooper’s lovely and slightly intoxicated assistant falls through; I will be right back here to report to you.
Sep
23
2009
The swine flu and drug war will seem about as threatening as a girl scout once yours truly touches down in Mexico next week. And although I can’t promise any adventures that will be as exciting as Miami was, I CAN promise that I’ll be knee deep in tequila for the whole 7 days I am there. Moreover, if I can figure out a way to snorkel in it, it shall be done.
The official reason for this trip is my good friend Gabby’s wedding, in which I hold the spot as perhaps the most degenerate of all the bridesmaids. As many of you have previously read in “Diaries of a Drunk Bridesmaid.” my commitment to this wedding is a serious one. I made sure to attend the bachelorette party and bridal shower with a smile on my face and a bottle of alcohol in my hand.. I baked cockies (penis-shaped cookies), wielded dildos, and came dangerously close to a questionable looking strippers nuts and berries. I didn’t go through all of this because it was fun for me, no. I did it because I am a devoted friend and citizen of this world and I do what I can given the proper amount of alcohol. So as this trip embarks upon myself and the rest of my friends attending this wedding, I have set a few personal goals that have nothing to do with me getting plastered, or having fun, or getting laid. Although if these three things happen to occur then so be it
1) I am not a socially ignorant person. I am well aware of the terrible circumstances that Mexico is in as a country economically. Therefore this coming week I will do my part to stimulate the Mexican economy harder than a case of KY Jelly. Take my word, there will be no one that will consume more alcohol than I this week. Of course there will be points when I don’t think I can physically drink any longer, or when the token Mexican transexual in the dark corner of the club starts looking kind of pretty to me; but I wont let that stop me! No, I will power through. And before you judge me by saying that this to my benefit only rather than the Mexican economy; I will throw out something else: I also plan on giving the job market one swift kick in the balls. All I can disclose at this point is that there might be another surprise bachelorette party for the bride, and it may just involve a handful of little Mexican strippers who’ve been out of work for months now.
2) I’m very excited to be rooming with my best friend Cheeha on this little get away. A fellow bridesmaid, she is probably the only person that can rival me in my mentally retarded tendencies. She claims that I torture her, and quite frankly I can’t disagree. But this trip to Mexico this torture will be coupled with bestowing her with great responsibility. Since I will most likely be passed out in a cabana after a long night of ’stimulating the economy,’ I’ll have to put her in charge of fighting the drug war. In fact, Cheeha’s 5′ um 0″ frame is just threatening enough to get the job done. After all that’s still a good foot taller than most Mexicans I have met. So upon our arrival in Cancun I will send her into the streets with two butter knives, a fork, and a Sombrero to instill fear into anyone drug lord that even attempts to fuck with us. She’s trained to inflict real pain with or without her collection of silverware/ weapons. If approached she’s just low to the ground enough to slice open a shin with one swift bite. True story, I’ve seen it.
3) In addition to the rest of the bridal party and Gabby’s whole family; my friends Jane and Katherine will be joining us as well. Although I already appointed them with the task of spreading sun tan lotion on the members of the bride’s family that are over the tender age of 60; there is much more for them to do. These two lovely ladies will also be in charge or making sure there is a constant condom supply. At any given time they are expected to have 6-7 on hand, each. This is not because we expect to have 6-7 sexual partners during the span of the trip; assuming there are no roofies involved. It is because this is Cancun, and the necessity to triple or even quadruple bag in some cases is unfortunately a must.
4) Lastly I plan on keeping my whole party of people safe from the dreaded swine flu! Yes, I will be providing everyone with decorated surgical masks. Each will have a saying I see fit for the individual, scrolled across the front in permanent marker. And if they refuse to oblige by the rules of wearing the masks at all times, I’ll be forced to write on them with or without it. Because I am a thoughtful individual, each mask will be personalized and created on the spot as I see is appropriate for the time. For example, after I accomplish my life time goal of fucking someone named Jesus. I will then proceed to scribe,” Jesus came to(on) me last night” across the front of the mask.
So farewell to you all. Or should I say, “adios amigos, Donde esta la biblioteca?” I will soon leave you to begin a week of drunk antics and unsuccessful mariachi band try outs. I hope to be telling you all about it from my destination following the trip to Mexico: Vegas. And God only knows whether I’ll be making it back from that trip. Nope ladies and gentlemen my life doesn’t suck; but sometimes, if the mood strikes me, I do.
Sep
23
2009
“Did someone get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”
1) Since this is usually addressed to you if you are in a particularly bad mood, please be aware that the response to this question will typically be one hearty: FUCK YOU! This is if you are lucky and there are too many witnesses surrounding you. Otherwise, my right hand cross is coming down on you’re face faster than a cock in in a jail cell.
2) Perhaps asking me if I have a ‘case of the Mondays’ would be the only other thing that would get you shot faster than the first reference. But those who insist on using either expression are the same fucking breed of people, so it’s bound to happen eventually. In all honestly I find watching a whole fucking Marathon of the Hills more mentally stimulating than one simple interaction with these cheery fucks. Moreover, I’m so fed up with this particular group that I would gladly sponsor any type of research to spot the “Mindfuckingly Obnoxious Chromosome” in hopes of eventually altering it. Perhaps changing a person that consistently uses these phrases along with words such as ‘folks’ and ”darn,’ to someone I can have a conversation with that spans longer that 15 seconds.
3) The literal expression itself makes about as much sense as a Jonas Brothers appearance on Howard Stern. What the fuck is the wrong side of the bed exactly? I could only really imagine that if you have a spouse or significant other sleeping with you. In which case getting up on the ‘wrong’ side would mean their side of the bed. In which case yeah, if your dumb ass had to roll over another life-size human being in order to get you ass out of bed this morning, it must have been a rough start to the day. Especially after taking a lashing from the person you just trampled your big ass over. There’s not enough coffee in the world to fix this domestic dispute into a morning resembling a Folgers commercial.
However, if you live by yourself the whole bed is yours. Feel free to get up on any side you see fit. Pour yourself a hot cup of coffee (with a generous serving of Kahlua) and head out of your house expressing whichever mood you are in freely. And if telling the obnoxious human being that decides to throw this cliche at you to go fuck themselves in no longer fulfilling enough, venture into humoring them a bit. Listen carefully, then respond that getting out of bed this morning was nothing compared to getting out of their spouse’s bed when you two hear their car pull into the garage. Followed up with a wink and a “Have a great day Bob/ Karen!” (Yeah, they’re always fucking named Bob or Karen)
Monday, June 1, 2009
The time has come to take a stance against cutesy pillow-talk. Because cuddling has an ugly sister.
Sep
23
2009
The bar and club scene I experienced in Miami makes for a variety of great stories that mostly consist of near penetration on the dance floor. I hardly ever seem to mind too much.
And although I enjoyed the nightlife to great lengths, nothing compares to the experiences I had simply walking down the streets. On many nights, taking a brisk stroll leads to many suspicions on my part. I wonder about whether or not someone decided to play a practical joke and write “Free Blow Jobs” on my forehead in Sharpy while I was passed out. I also made sure to have my friend, Rita inspect my forehead for this as well as a medical condition I previously diagnosed as Forehead-gina. This is all due to the fact that most of the men fancy me a Stevie Wonder type, and don’t seem to think I can actually see them staring at me. For the most part I couldn’t say that I minded too much. Moreover, I can even admit to appreciating the diversity of people I ran into. We have the simply good looking guys, the celebrities, the want to be rappers, and my personal favorite: the bums. Here are a few stories I have concerning a few of these extremely eligible bachelors.
Sep
23
2009
On the first day of my mission to do Miami, I made a quick run to the grocery store. I needed to have plenty of bottled water back in my room considering I couldn’t possibly risk getting dehydrated during this crucial week. It was go time, and my focus must have been strong as I saw the green light turn on signaling me to cross the street right in front of my hotel room. As I stepped off the curb and proceeded to make my way across Collins Avenue, I saw a red shiny car out of the corner of my eye about half way to the other side. It came to an abrupt halt right in front of me. Slightly stunned, but not willing to stop, I briefly turned my head upward and got a quick glimpse of the front of a Rolls Royce. “Watch it!” I mumbled continuing to cross the street. I was rather annoyed that the driver of this car had almost impaired my physical health for the next week. How was I supposed to pork properly with a bad leg? I plan to leave the whole ‘pimp with a limp’ routine to DJ Laz.
After safely making it to the sidewalk, I glanced back to see who was responsible for almost lodging the Rolls Royce radiator figure right into my right nipple. Upon glancing into the hooked-up car, which had no top at the moment I exclaimed,
“Holly fucking shit! Is that TI?!”
Sure enough it was! Everyone on the block was screaming for him to wave, and he did before the light turned green forcing him to speed away. On a clear mission to see how many pedestrians he can fuck with at each stop light.
Wait wait, I thought to myself. What the fuck? Isn’t he supposed to be in jail? Whatever happened to the one year and one day bull shit? It’s jail, not sleep away summer camp, how the fuck did he get out of it?
A woman that was previously screaming to my would- be attacker, must have seen me scathing my head in bewilderment.
“Yep! It really was him!” she yelled from the third floor of the hotel down at me.
“ I thought his ass was in jail?!” I responded blatantly disregarding the dozens of people walking between us.
“Nah girl you know them celebrities, go in for like a week then they’re out!” she informed me with the eloquence of a young Katie Couric.
“Yeah, I hear ya,” I responded as I headed for the lobby entrance. At this point the reality of the situation hit me and I was instantly acquired a series of regrets. Damn it, even if he had hit me, it wouldn’t have fazed TI at all. He would have spent a day tops in jail, making sure to save my body as a permanent hood ornament. Ont the other hand, at least I’d be permanently propped up on a Rolls Royce. Ehh I guess that wouldn’t be that bad, I’ve rode worse people. I mean things.
So I figured I’d let his poor breaking skills go for a bit. I began kicking myself for not taking advantage of the situation. In reality, I had a whole two minutes to talk business with the man. I’d briefly explain to him that I was more ‘street’ than Justin Timberlake and would like to become his new sidekick.
It would be TI and yours truly: TIT.
Together we’d spend endless days getting money and fuckin bitches. Well, I’ll be getting money and he can fuck the bitches. Quite frankly, pussy makes me queasy.
Sep
10
2009
The Overly-Confident Guy
Better known to everyone else observing him as the Token DOUCHE. While attempting to look up some sort of all encompassing definition for ‘token douche’ one is quite likely to come across a plethora of Guido pictures.
This is because there is a simple formula: All Guidos= douche bags, however not All douche bags=Guidos. Stay with me, it’s all very complex and mathematical in nature.
When it comes to this breed of humans: no one is safe. The douche bag will approach every single person they come across as if it would be a personal honor to all of us to be in his presence; and subsequently the presence of his tiny, tiny penis. He walks around a bar with his arms lifted 5 inches away from his sides at all times. This is of course to show us all his expensive steroid investment. A particularly obnoxious quality when your trying to walk around him and end up getting shoved up against the wall. (If I am getting shoved anywhere by a guy, and it’s not followed up by some rather impressive penetration and hair pulling; I will be forced to taser him). Furthermore those kind of muscles do not fool me for one minute. These buldges, no matter how massive, will never be able to compensate for the lack-there-of down south.
After making his way to the bar, the guy will then find any reflective surface in the whole establishment to make sure he is looking up to par. (Worst case scenario the reflective surface may be the aviators his equally douchey friend is sporting in the dark.) He gives himself a once over to make sure he is: A) Tan enough B) His hair is still in fact gelled to perfection. Every single strand must be standing straight up at attention; the way his cock never seems to be able to C) His eyebrows are waxed and shaped to Brooke Shields like perfection. And finally D) The layer of coconut chap stick he stole off his 12 year old sister is still perfectly coating his lips.
After all points have been checked, the token douche will order a drink with his buddies a.k.a the gang of douche bags which might as well be sextuplets as far as the rest of us are concerned. This is because they all look more alike to us than the staff at the local Chinese take-out place.
And after all is settled, comes the point which everyone dreads. They do the most horrific thing one could possibly imagine them doing…they speak. However, as I have observed they do not hit on you nor do they speak to you. No, they hit at you and speak at you. Such as:
“You and I are gonna take a shot right now.”
Or if you manage to come to your senses and run they’ll throw something at you like: “Yo where you going? Sit here and talk to me. What are you going to find all the way over there? You ain’t findin nobody better than me I can tell you that!”
Charming. If that suave line won’t have my ankles tucked behind my ears in sheer moments, I don’t know what will.
A while back I was approached by an overly confident douche. I was sitting at a favorite local bar. Relaxing and having a few drinks with friends. Rookie mistake. Never show them your vulnerable. So as I was accosted by the token douche of the bar this particular evening; I had to combat it the only way I knew how. Take the fact that their dumb as balls and exploit it to your advantage. The conversation went as follows…
“Hey why are you sitting here?! You should be out there dancing with me!” He screamed over the music and into my face while pointing toward the dance floor. There stood his butt fucking best friends who were expressing themselves through what seemed to be interpretative dance… you know but somehow more gay.
“Yeah, um, yeah I’m sorry I would it’s just that I have a bad leg” I responded with a shrug and gentle tap to my right leg.
“Oh you do?!” He quipped not convinced, or maybe not caring that I had this ailment. At this point of the evening his desperation would have probably led him to steer some chick around in her wheel chair after him had he been able to get his hands on her.
“I really do,” I responded keeping my composure. (A talent I have when I speak to the mentally handicapped. What can I say? I was blessed at birth.)
“So how’d you hurt it then?” He continued to pry starring at it suspiciously; as if it was supposed to have an ‘out of order sign’ on it to justify what I just told him.
Without letting a moment go by, I shot back,” ‘Nam ” Then proceeded to turn around and join my friends, who were trying to contain their laughter, for another round of drinks.
“Like, like… ‘Nam, as in Vietnam?!” I heard him mumble to the back of my head right before shuffling back to the dance floor while scratching his head; joining his friends who were now mastering river dance.
Victory was mine.
One small step for me, but a huge leap for all Vietnam veterans around the world.
The Overly- Confident Girl
On the other hand, to be fair, I must mention the overly-confident woman. This segment is a hell of a lot shorter because it really just leads down to several factors.
A) The woman is good looking: She approaches a guy at the bar, hits on him, and eventually spreads her legs faster than the popular girl in high school with the slew of daddy issues. In this case, good for you. I congratulate you on your luck. A good and easy lay is hard enough to come across when you are trying; let alone when it just falls in to your lap/onto your dick reverse cowgirl style.
B) The girl who holds a striking resemblance to Shrek: This is pretty fucking elementary as well. For all men know that if a woman forcefully throws herself on a guy, who makes tittie fucking Barbera Bush look more appealing in comparison; there is only one thing left to do. Sheer self preservation. Time to guard yourself against the ogre and tell her that you’d most likely rather shove your dick into a toaster on this lovely evening. End of story there, because the villagers holding the torches and pitch forks would have surely caught up to her by now anyways.
C) Now this is the only tricky part. The girl who is anywhere from moderately-extremely attractive BUT completely shit faced. I’m talking Paula Abdul out of it. It’s a wonder how she’s managing to put one foot in front of the other at this point, let alone dance. But she’s attempting to pull it together. And even though her eyes are about half closed at this point; many guys do not give a flying fuck. They are set on taking HO Bags home with them as a souvenir.
I was again umm lucky? enough to observe something exactly like this on my recent trip to Las Vegas.The story unfolded right before my eyes…
While dancing at this club called BANK; I felt someone elbow me in the back. Pissed off, I look to see who the idiot was who decided to go over their self defense classes rather than dance tonight. However, my gaze caught a cute girl dancing with this guy. He, was obviously less intoxicated than she. I concluded this because he looked at me apologetically motioning to her and mouthed ‘I’m sorry.’ And she stood there flailing her arms, eyes half closed,her ass shoved in his crotch, and her dress rolled up to somewhere below her belly button but above her g-string.
Just minutes later she swings her body around and starts making out with him, all the while completely disrobing him of his shirt. The naive little man looked like a kid on Christmas morning. Clearly excited at his fortune, he was smiling ear to ear. Fairly confident that his dick is definitely making a guest appearance in one of her orphases in some way shape or form by the end of the night.
I left, knowing how it will all end. I was sad for him, because I knew exactly what was coming.
As I turned around briefly one more time before exiting the club, I see her projectile vomit all over the dance floor. Yep, that was inevitable. She probably even wiped herself with his shirt that she took off just moments before. Poor guy. But lesson learned: Pursue the far-gone HO Bags with extreme caution, because the chances of her simply blowing you are much lower than those of her blowing her dinner all over you.
It’s all fun and games until somebody gets pregnant. And then, well, it can still be fun and games as long as that ’somebody’ is not me.
Aug
10
2009
My carry on of Trojans slips off my lap as the bus taking me to the Philadelphia airport comes to an abrupt stop.
“Ugh,” I moan as I pry my eyes open.The sight of my best friend Cheeha greeted me instead of the sun. She sat hunched over next to me passed out like the token high school cheerleader after a night of getting gang banged by the whole football team.
It was four in the morning and still dark out. Since this is a Sunday morning I speak of, I was of course hung over by this point. No, not even an early ball-sucking flight can get me to let a perfectly good Saturday night go to waste.
Like my dad always says: “A Saturday wasted is a Saturday spent when your not wasted.” (Well come think of it, it wasn’t my dad who said that. Rather this good looking older gentleman I insisted on calling ‘daddy’).
That aside however, I especially could not stay in this evening because my friends and I were celebrating my good friend Rita’s (Funbags) birthday. Most of my time was spent chasing her around the VIP section of Prime Lounge, in attempt to make her stop pulling up the skirt of her dress and as a result show all her co-workers her cheery pie. A move she would regret the next morning next to the ‘for her pleasure condoms’ behind the Rite Aid Pharmacy counter.
Luckily in between the skirt saving, I was actually able to successfully tongue wrestle a bottle of Moet; which somehow managed to hit me harder than Chris Brown. This left me pleasantly buzzed, but I’d certainly need another bottle to even attempt to keep up with Rita’s exhibitionistic tendencies.
“Just make sure you keep your fucking underwear on” I yelled to her across the room as she sandwiched herself between a few more guests. The truth is I was happy for her and glad she was enjoying her birthday, she really deserved it. However, as she finally spilled her vodka red bull on me I declared her a lost cause and sat back to enjoy the show.
But now all the festivities were a distant memory as I sat in the bus…sober as fuck. To top it all off I developed a killer headache, which I know can only be solved by more booze. I went in search for my cure as we entered our terminal. Just minutes into my search and headache rescue, I cursed aloud out of disappointment in the airport wine bar after finding that it’s in fact closed 5 AM. I had to opt for some hot tea instead. “Airports should really be more alcoholic friendly!” i deduced. And may have even said out loud to the gentleman working the night shift at the Dunk Donuts.
One four hour (passed out) plane ride later and I was in Cancun. Awesome. Honestly, nothing is able to cheer me up more than the sight of the incredibly blue ocean, white sand, and promises of an all inclusive open bar. It was hot as balls in the month of June, so it’s really necessary for my personal health to tote a cool drink around with me at all times. Frozen mixed drinks work the best.
Luckily for us the resort Gabby chose to have her wedding at was off the hook. Cheeha and I shared a junior suite that connected to another one which was occupied by our good friends Katherine and Jane. This way we always had the option of diking it out in our respective rooms, if need be. Or we could always decide to have a full blown orgy in the small hallway which connected the two. Although we appreciated the convenience of this, housekeeping frowned upon the claeaning up of the double sided dildo greatly.
But I will say that my favorite thing about the whole resort were the Cabana boys! Small men who’s entire days purpose was to make sure that I have enough Pina Coladas and other alcoholic beverages to maintain a steady buzz. (A state I prefer to keep through all my vacations, and the occasional Wednesday morning). In fact, if the cabana boys had wings, they’d for sure be my God-sent little Mexican angles. Nothing beats the sound of Diego’s little feet pitter-pattering to my lounge chair with a tray full of Mimosas at 9 AM.
And like all other vacations this affinity for being under the influence constantly means that I can’t deliver one cohesive story for you. I can only piece together a few that I think you would enjoy as much as I enjoyed being there. Well, as far as I can remember. Enjoy
Jul
3
2009
“Beauty is In the eye of the beholder.”
LIES!
A) Here we go, yet another thing the visually unacceptable tell themselves to soften the cold, harsh blow of shit-show genetics. Unless the ‘beholder’ is severely cross eyed, or legally blind; there is just no way one person can say someone is downright beautiful while the another wouldn’t touch them with someone elses genitals.
B) Simply the word ‘beauty’ holds a lot of meaning. It does not mean ‘kind of cute.’ It does not mean ‘I’d fuck her as long as she wears the stock supply of paper bags in Super Fresh.’ And it certainly does not even mean ‘mediocre looking (in dim lighting).’ Beauty means something extraordinary. As in not extraordinarily beastly.
C) Lastly, the only notable exception to my take on this is: BABIES. I will admit in this case that there are some truly questionable looking children out there that the parents of which still find ‘beautiful.’ The rest of us, which are not wearing these baby beer goggles of sorts, are then forced to stare at pictures of these creatures. All the while we must still maintain at least a sliver of composure and somehow contort the look of horror on our faces into a smile. Because of these parental delusions; every interaction with them begins to resemble the overly enthusiastic acting in an audition for The Bold and the Beautiful. Exhausting, and often down right embarrassing!
(Note: If you think you might have an ugly baby please keep it to yourself until it grows out of it. All these forced smiles and compliments through clenched teeth are liable to give me an early onset of crows feet.)
Sometimes I look back on my high school years and think,”damn I should have slept around more.” That way I could have easily graduated with an A in Geometry.
Jun
23
2009
Unfortunately, TI was not the only rapper I was lucky enough to run into on the street. No, about a block away from our hotel, a group of wanna be rappers sat on lawn chairs outside of their hotel spitting rhymes and ear raping me relentlessly. Every night. Without fail.
“Yooooooooooooooooo girl, yo yo yo!”
“Ooo I wan some of that, hey boo wassup boo??!”
“Awwwhh girl I like that!”
Each night I simply ignored it, but much like herpes, they simply would not go away. One hot evening it was particularly annoying, and really got me thinking. What exactly do they think this is going to accomplish? Perhaps after calling me a hot little thing for the 17th time in a row I’ll drop
my pants and skip over in their direction, occupying a lawn chair of my very own. I just didn’t get what they had planned had a vagina ridden being ever actually responded to their urban mating calls.
So as their ring leader, Fatter Joe, continued to holla at me without so much as taking a break for air, I decided to find out.
“Hey shawtay, hey shawtay, hey shawytay, hey shawtay, hey shawtay, hey shaw…”
Great, I have a stutterer on my hands…
“Yeah! What?!” I screamed after suddenly stopping and facing in their direction.
It became suddenly clear that no one ever inquired into exactly what Fatter Joe had to say. In fact, I realized I may just be the first person of female orientation to actually address him.
“Uhh, shitttttttt, I don’t even know what to say,” he responded with his mouth gaping open wider than one of a blow up doll. He continued to pat the back of his head in silence. I assumed the pats to the head were his way of making information travel faster. Whatever works I guess.
Not moving my gaze, I proceeded to stand there hands up in the air, waiting for a response.
“Uhhh, I don’t even know, I don’t even know, but I like it, I really like it giiirl! Shit I’ll even pay fo it! Yeah, yeah! I’ll pay fo it! How much girl?!” he continued after he got his head back on track.
I started laughing and continued to walk away leaving Fatter Joe and any hope at a future career in prostitution behind me. In all honesty by the looks of him, the only form of payment I would be getting most likely a crumbled five dollar bill with change he had in his pocket. Maybe even a TWIX from the vending machine if I negotiated correctly. I won’t put out for that little, I have people for that.
It felt like the bitter sweet ending to a romantic comedy, as I walked away with a smile on my face and the sounds of my potential lover fading away the further and further I went…
How much shawtay? How much shawtayyy? How much…”