Inhaling my excellence

Thursday, July 19, 2007

If you don’t think that farting is funny or somewhat cool, then you’re a fucking humorless douche bag. God realized that he fucked up when he created things like the plague, AIDS, cancer, Dick Cheney, non-alcoholic beer, and DMV’s. So he decided to make it up to us by giving us humans the ability to lighten up the mood of any situation just by using our ass.

The fart can change the mood of anyone in any situation. If you’re at a funeral and everyone is crying and weeping over the recently deceased and you hear the “Fwomp” of a big poopy fart from somewhere in the crowd of criers, it immediately causes an almost reflex like grin to spread across your face. Even if you think that farting during a funeral is horrible it’s still sort of funny once the smell hits your nose. If you are sitting in an interrogation room and are being questioned because you are the number one suspect in the gruesome murder of a disabled nun; I guarantee that if you were to lean to the side and slide out a greasy gut bomb that every cop in the room would start laughing. Farts are an amazing gift from God, and just like the gift of sex, people have made farting taboo.

I consider farting to be an art form. My ass is the brush, scent and sound are my media, and the nose and ears are my canvas. With these components I create masterpieces that only the truly well sense-of-humored can appreciate. I create whimsical songs of thunder that dance in the nostrils like a sack of shit. It’s fucking hilarious. I just farted right now.

I’m not sure how the whole farting thing rests with the minds of gay guys. I don’t know if farting is accepted among the homosexual male community because the bunghole is probably seen in a different light to them. I would imagine that farting is a way of flirting or blowing kisses to eachother among gay men. Farting is a renaissance language to them, it is the romantic language of love. I wonder if there was a farting ritual used for choosing mates before the bath houses of the 80’s closed down. Perhaps the tone or the squeak of the fart would determine if the guy was a pitcher or a catcher.

However, women always seem to be appalled whenever a man farts. Well fuck you lady! If I ever find myself dating some snooty bitch that can’t pat me on the back for my stinky anal achievements then she can just go sleep in the fucking car. I  used to believe that when a girl farted it sounded like the ringing of little bells and a pink poof of flower scented perfume came out. My friend’s girlfriend in high school ruined that whole theory. So now I know that women drop horrible bombs just like guys do, and I’m sure that they do it around their fellow girlfriends and laugh just the same way as us guys do. So why the fuck do women have to act like assholes just because a guy farted? I’ll tell you why, because women are born hypocrites in every sense of the word. In fact, I’m willing to bet that a girl’s panties would have twice as many skidmarks as my boxers do. That’s just another reason for me to stay single. There may come a time that I somehow lose my ability to break wind and I want to celebrate this wonderful gift as much as possible before the lord taketh away. I refuse to imagine just how sad and dismal my existence would be if I were to be robbed of my right to nearly shit my pants with ass clapping farts. So my advice to any woman that considers farting to be rude and inappropriate is this: “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth because this world would be really fucking depressing if people were unable to fart, so stop being such a fucking bitch and let some of that gas out of your guts, you’ll feel better.”

Am I a bigot?

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

I’ve been in Denver for the past week looking for a job and a place to live. Today I spent my entire morning and afternoon looking at apartments. I’m actually slightly gifted at wheeling and dealing when it comes to me having to pay for something, so I turn on the charm and kiss a little ass when negotiating my lease.

Anyway, I’d like to talk about choosing an apartment based on the complex’s current tenants. I was sort of turned off by a very cheap and fairly decent apartment because of some of the fellow tenants that were standing outside or driving in the parking lot. These tenants fit so many racial stereotypes that it was hilarious but convincing in my choice to not live there. Outside there was a 300 pound black beast woman that was wearing a flower patterned bathrobe at two in the afternoon on a Monday, and she was slapping and screaming her ass off at some scrawny black dude wearing supersized Dickies, an enormous FUBU jersey, and a nicely snug black do-rag on his head. Then there was an Asian lady that was trying to park in a spot that was in the corner of the parking lot and she kept slamming into the squared curve before she could fully turn into the spot. (Some people don’t know about the stereotype of Asians being shitty drivers, but that stereotype does exist.) On the other side of the parking lot there was a Mexican, oops, I mean Hispanic young man that was blasting some Spanish circus music out of his 1985 White Monte Carlo with rims that cost more than the damn car itself. I could tell that this young Latino was obviously on his break from his job at a very sanitary restaurant, because he was in such a hurry that he forgot to take off his hairnet when he left for lunch. Near the mailboxes was an elderly man using a walker. He was wearing plaid pants, golf shoes, a pink polo shirt, and a bright white yarmulke on his head. He looked like one of the evil Jewish New Jerseyites that always talked shit and complained about everyone when I lived in Miami. This entire apartment complex was just one giant racist punch line that was looking for a very politically incorrect joke.

Looking at all of these stereotype practitioners not only made me decide that I wasn’t going to live there, but it also made me think about some stereotypes that my friends and I might fit into. I fucking hate country music but most of my friends love it. So that stereotype excludes me. I am a white guy that drives a nice car and has absolutely no debt. I don’t know if that’s a stereotype but it is usually assumed that white people have more money. I’m a weight lifting meathead that was eating a protein bar while I was looking at this melting pot of tenant dwellers. I can’t dance for shit, I’ve sued somebody, I listen to Neil Diamond sometimes, I like the Beastie Boys and Wu Tang Clan but I hate Lil’ Jon and all of that ATL bullshit, I lived in a trailer home when I was a baby, and I know how to ride a horse. There really isn’t that many racial stereotypes towards middle class white American men. I should feel lucky but I don’t. I kind of wish that there was some sort of stereotype for me to fall into, just so I could go against it and maybe surprise some off-white racists of Caucasians. Stereotypes are natural and I sort of feel left out by the fact that I don’t really have one, aside from the poor dancing skills.

I don’t believe that I am a bigot simply because I recognize stereotypes when they are being played out directly in front of me. Besides, a young Hispanic man should take some responsibility for the stereotype just as soon as he decides that it would be cool to put his last name on his rear windshield in white Old English letters. I didn’t create these stereotypes, the victims of these stereotypes created them all by themselves. So fuck anyone that thinks somebody is racist just because they notice a common theme amongst any race, gender, religion, or age group. Finding patterns is a very natural thing for people to do. I don’t consider a person to be unbiased or “color blind” because they can’t recognize stereotypes when they are looking at a group of people. I consider those people to either be blind or just plain stupid.

By the way, I forgot to mention that the sales woman in the leasing office was an overweight African-American woman with an empty KFC bag on the corner of her desk.

The funniest show in the world

Friday, May 25, 2007

To Catch a Predator on MSNBC. It is the funniest fucking thing that I have ever seen on television. It’s better than watching the fat kid try to climb the rope in gym class. It is a show about guys trying to live out their dirty fantasy of bonking the hot cheerleader that they never got to pork in high school, and then they get busted and put on television for soliciting a minor. I would feel sorry for some of these guys if they didn’t all look like total pieces of shit. If a good looking 25 year old guy tries to hook up with a 16 year old and someone asks him why, then he could just point to an average 25 year old woman in America (by the way, I show no mercy for the obese). However, if a guy looks like a fat lump of poop himself then he has absolutely no right to talk to an attractive girl whether she is of age or not.

Let me get down to the brass tax here. Sex with teenage girls is pushed upon guys through media and television on a daily basis. Has anyone noticed that children shows like ‘Lizzie Mcguire’ and ‘Sabrina the Teenage Witch’ always seem to have their marathons after 11:00 PM? What “children” are watching these all night marathons that are filled with attractive and spunky little teens jumping around and wearing schoolgirl outfits? They obviously know that fat forty-year-old hairballs are stroking their skindogs to these shows at night. Teenage girls are also shown as being attractive and sexy in all of the movies these days, and then when these actresses get older they are either no longer seen in movies or they are casted to play the queen of England. As a guy myself I can attest to the constant mental mind fucking by underage girls in this society. I walk by the local GAP and I see posters of sweet little underage betty’s wearing bikinis and giving me those “fuck me” eyes that I usually get from a Twinkie hog standing next to a vending machine. I watch MTV and all I see are giddy little teenage girls wearing G-strings and getting all hot bothered by mega nerds like Carson Daly, and that makes me realize that I’d probably have a chance at scoring with those girls. I open an issue of Barely Legal to nourish my brain with current events while I sit on the crapper, and I am instantly bombarded with pictures of teenage girls taking part in some hard ass sweaty fuck action. Our society is constantly telling us guys that it is perfectly natural to be sexually attracted to Hannah Montana and then the laws are all turned against it.

I’ve also noticed that most of the guys caught on this show claim to be virgins. When I look at these guys I truly believe that to be true. Maybe if we had some legal form of prostitution that wasn’t ridiculously expensive in this country, there wouldn’t be so much sexual frustration. I’ve known girls that would fuck anything with the ability to hold a beer, and despite this willingness to give back to their community they live in a shitty trailer home. If we gave these girls a bar of soap and a job doing what they have a passion for, which is getting boned and smoking hog, then we would not only have fewer sex offenders but we would also have less women working at Burger King and living in furnitured horse trailers. I would be much more proud of my daughter if she was a penile pin cushion and lived in a bigger house than mine, rather than have a daughter that lives in a box and sucks dick for popcorn.

This show also brings up a few questions with me. When did people stop laughing every time a guy asked a 14 year old girl if she was into deepthroating? Where did everyone’s sense of humor go? This stuff really is kind of funny and if we were able to laugh at it and give these sexual deviants a pat on the back and say, “Hey buddy, let’s get you an escort and get you laid.” then we would have a much more mentally healthy society. A lot of these guys ask the girl if she is into anal sex, so they are obviously familiar with the saying, “If there’s no grass on the field then just play in the dirt.” I also want to know what website these people chat on. I think these websites are the pinnacle of the freedom of speech in this country. So long as you don’t send pictures of your dong and go to the girl’s house, then you’re really not breaking the law. You can just say that it is entirely fantasy and the government has no right to tell you what you can and cannot fantasize about in your own head. So I’d probably get onto one of these websites and type some extremely hot and horny shit. There is also a girl that acts as a decoy when the guy arrives at the supposed minor’s house. The girl is actually over the age of 18 and I think she’s smoking hot. So if I’m attracted to this sweet and petite little barely legal looking angel, am I really a sexual predator that wants to pound a minor into submission with my fuck stick? Or am I just another American guy that has had images and suggestions of having sex with hot teenage girls beaten into my brain my entire life? Who knows, I’m going to wack off to some hot Nickelodeon yum-yum and go to bed with a mess on my stomach.

Now I need a cigarette

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

I just want to write this blog as a thank you note to the thousands of insecure women that post “cute” pictures of themselves with their tits almost popping out of their shirt on Myspace. There is something extremely hot about seeing a girl that I know, but don’t always see her in a sexual way, showing off as much of her body as possible without actually getting naked. It’s kind of like how certain girls dress on Halloween. They dress like total fucking prostitutes and act like they’re just trying to be cute or something, because Halloween is a great excuse to dress like a cocktease without taking ridicule for it. So if you’re one of those girls that puts pictures of you and your friends bending over and letting your tits dangle in front of the camera, and then you put a caption saying “Me and the girls just goofing off” or some stupid shit, I just want to tell you that you’re not fooling anyone. You probably are a bit of a whore and Myspace is your place to flaunt your tits around the world without having to hear your friends give you shit about it. I won’t say names but I just saw the Myspace page for a girl that I sort of knew in high school and her pictures almost made me pump my pants full of kids. Thank God the meter man came knocking on the door or I would have been stomping the floor and sanding my love log all morning. She was wearing low-cut shirts and pulling her pants down and making oral connotations to the camera and it was like really cool and I had this raging boner and wow. I wish I could say her name on here because I want to tell her that she does look like a total whore on her page even though all the captions suggest that she wasn’t intentionally posing like a floozy. It’s sort of the reason that I don’t put pictures of myself on here; except for a couple with a cut out of my face. I say some retarded shit on here and I don’t want to be associated with it unless people already know who I am. Even if you see a picture of my face you probably won’t recognize me in public. But these girls just throw themselves on here with their boobs and buttocks hanging out and they don’t think that it’ll make an impression on anyone. If I see this girl in a bar around here then I’m gonna be all over her like Manbearpig on a trash can full of Slim Jims because I’ve already seen her almost naked, and I like what I saw. I won’t explain what Manbearpig is, but it’s pretty scary. To sum this all up, if you are a fairly normal girl that posts pictures of yourself in hot and horny poses or with your tits all over the place, please let me know about it. Especially if you are a girl that I’ve actually met in person because that is definitely hotter for some reason.

I’d also like to add that this all applies to guys that pose with their shirts off on here too. You look like insecure homosexuals. If you are gay and you post shirtless pictures of yourself on Myspace it isn’t as bad as straight guys doing it, but it does mean that you actually are an insecure homosexual.

I don’t know, I suppose life is short and youth is even shorter. So if you do have a good body then don’t be afraid to show it. Just don’t pretend that the rest of the world has Down syndrome and doesn’t know that you are purposely taking pictures from an overhead view just so you can show your cleavage.

Sheer Energy Legs!!!

Monday, March 19, 2007

I just finished shaving my legs about 20 minutes ago. I’m finally starting to slim down and get my six-pack back, so I figured I would go the extra mile by shedding my body hair as well. I’ve listened to women complain about having to shave their legs before and I just want to say that those women are fucking pussies. It was one of the easiest Goddamn things I’ve ever done. I lathered a thick and rich layer of Extra Strength Nair for Men over both of my legs and buttocks. Then I waited for about 5 minutes or so, then I got in the shower and rinsed it off, and then I went back over them with a razor a few times. You’re either a retard or a total fucking pussy if you think that shaving your legs is difficult. Eating with a fork is more complicated than shaving your fucking legs.

I do have a new role model in my life now that I have shaved my legs. I used to think that the famous actor Dom Deluise was a fine and honorable man to look up to, but now I hope that I can someday be as strong and well grounded as the hair on my chode. Apparently the hair between my legs is comprised of Teflon and diamond strands. I didn’t want to put Nair on my chode or anywhere near my butthole because I know that it can cause chemical burns, so I figured that I would just shave my chode and perianal area. I was using a brand new Mach 3 Turbo razor that was fresh out of the package and I still couldn’t shave the hair off of my damn chode. It was like fighting fire with fire. A Mach 3 Turbo razor could shave the faces of Mount Rushmore and it would still be sharp enough to safely shave your balls with, but apparently it is no match for the patch of hair that grows between my pud and pucker. It’s as if God protects my chode hair. My chode skin was beginning to get razor burn from constantly trying to shave it and the fucking hair still wouldn’t come off. My legs and ass are completely hairless now, but I just know that I would have a total anal beard if someone were to see me from behind while I was spread eagle. I don’t have a girlfriend right now, so I can’t think of anyone that will get to see my anal beard anytime soon. That actually makes my anal beard a little more important to me; because I know that it is my own and very private anal beard. Mitch. That is what I’m going to name my anal beard, Mitch.

A Gazelle named Joe Montana

Saturday, February 24, 2007

I recently bought a Tony Little Gazelle because my exercise bike named Melissa sort of shit the bed on me. I bought the Gazelle because it was $30 cheaper than the next cheapest cardio equipment that I could find. I also figured that I would try something other than the usual recumbent bikes that I have been using for the past 7 years. After using the Tony Little Gazelle every morning for the past week, I have realized that I am in the upper epsilon of those with superior cardiovascular fitness. I am able to swing my legs on the Gazelle for an hour at a time without even becoming winded or breaking a sweat. I am sarcastically calling the Tony Little Gazelle a piece of shit. I sweat and run out of breath faster when I am eating a candy bar as compared to using a Gazelle. I’m not that pissed off about it though. It was only $80 and it is kind of fun despite the fact that it’s basically useless. I can hear my T.V. when I’m using it, and that’s nice. I’ve had 4 or 5 different exercise bikes over the years and I have named every one of them Melissa, named after a girl that I worshipped from afar in high school. I name my exercise equipment because it helps me to become more familiar and comfortable with something that I force myself out of bed to ride every morning. I refuse to give my Tony Little Gazelle the same name as my other exercise bikes because it doesn’t deserve such a fine name like Melissa. Instead I have chosen to name it Joe Montana. So every morning I force myself out of bed at the crack of 10am, and then I spend 30-60 minutes swinging my legs with Joe Montana. Then I lift weights for an hour later in the day or at night. In summary, the Gazelle is a waste of time, but if you are a cheese inhaling fat ass that hates exercising then maybe it would be good for you. It is pretty interesting to use and it can make you feel like you are actually doing something even though you’re just swinging your feet around. I’m also saying that I would like to challenge Tony Little to a fight. That son of a bitch owes me a Dave and Buster’s arcade charge card worth $18.75, and I’m getting pretty god damn tired of hearing his lame ass excuses. So hear this Tony, you are a slimy two-timing cock bobber that needs a good swift kick to the dick, and I’ve got my soccer shoes on. You G.D.M.F.S.O.B.!!! I’m coming for you Tony Little!

Lear Jet’s story #1

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Nate (the bartender): “Luke, announce the last call.” he tells me as he leans into the D.J. booth and then casually walks back to his duty of maintaining the bar.

Me: I flip the switch on the microphone and lean over to shout the usual closing lines to the Lear Jet’s night club crowd. “Last call for alcohol, ladies and gentleman! If she isn’t drunk enough to fuck your stupid ass, then this is your last chance to shove more swill down her throat! I repeat, last call for alcohol!” I then begin to play “Goodnight Ladies” by Lou Reed. I figured it would be a nice change from the usual “Let’s Get it On” by Marvin Gay. It was strictly a rap and hip-hop club, so I liked to close things out with something a little more calm and cheeky.

K: K is a girl that I had slightly known in high school. She was known to have many actual mental problems and was quite literally crazier than an outhouse rat. She wasn’t wildly insane; she was quiet serial killer insane. However, she had enormous tits, a very slim waistline, a decent face, and I knew that she was dumb enough to go home with a guy like me. “Hi Luke. I didn’t know you were a D.J. here. How are you doing?”

Me: “Oh I’ve been working here for almost a year now, I’m fine. You look great. What have you been up to?”

K: “I’ve just been doing charity work at Goodwill and helping disabled people at the hospital. I have a place in the apartments just down the street. Maybe you should stop by sometime. Will you excuse me for a moment.” She leaves the entry to the D.J. booth and walks towards the women’s bathroom.

Nate: “Dude, if you don’t fuck the shit out of that girl then I’m going tell the entire world just how flaming fucking gay you are.”

Me: “That girl is completely batshit man. She’s probably playing with her own shit in the toilet right now. You really think I should go home with her though?”

Nate: “You fucking better go home with her. Tony boned her about a month ago and he said she was a damn wildcat under the sheets.”

K: She walks out of the bathroom and walks directly up to me. Nate slowly slips away so that I can have a chance to seal the deal. “So are you just going home now, or are there any parties or anything?”

Me: “Well I don’t have any plans. I’ll probably just go home and go to bed. What are you going to do?”

K: She puts her mouth up to my ear and whispers, “Well I’m planning on taking you to my place and fucking your brains out.” Then she just slightly flicks my ear with her tongue.

Me: I’m completely amazed by this. I’ve had sex with some crazy ass nasties before, but none of them had given me such an instant boner by whispering kinky sex lines in my ear. I replied with a sort of nervous voice, “Who’s driving?”

K: She just sort of smiles at me and then she takes me by the hand and leads me out the door. I get into her white Pontiac and she starts the car. Everyone has had that time when they start their car and the stereo is blasting some hardcore song that they were previously jamming out to. When the car started her stereo began blasting one of those ‘sounds of nature’ CD’s. There were waves splashing and whale sounds pounding through out the car, and then she immediately turned it down and smiled at me. “Sorry, my apartment is just a couple blocks away.”

Me: I’m already completely fucking freaked out by the nature CD. I can understand somebody that enjoys listening to them while they are driving because it would help to calm them down. However, this fucking loony toon was obviously blasting whale sounds like she was rocking the shit out of that CD on her way to Lear Jet’s that night. That’s so goddamn weird that I immediately feel regret for going home with this psycho. “I just need to make sure that I have a ride back to my car in the morning.” I didn’t have shit to do the next day, but it was cold and I wanted to make sure that I had a way out of this situation. At the very least, I was making sure that she realized my car was still in the Lear Jet’s parking lot and that people would notice it if I were to go missing.

K: “Don’t worry, I’m going to take good care of you.”

We pulled into the parking lot of the apartments just down the street from Lear Jet’s and she parked. She leaned over towards me and we both made out like 8th graders for 10 minutes or so. I was all about getting my hands on her enormous sweater puppies. We then exited the car and went inside to her apartment. It was surprisingly clean. It was perhaps too clean. I could see the vacuum lines in the carpet, there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere, her DVD’s were very neatly organized and I later noticed that they were alphabetized, there were about 4 different stacks of coasters to make sure that nobody ever directly placed a drink on a table, and she had a huge ass projection screen TV that I could see my reflection in. I like clean homes, but I knew that this place was cleaned with Ajax and insanity. K had slipped off into another room while I glanced around her apartment.

K: “Luke. Get in here.” She said from a dark room off to the side of me.

Me: I entered the dark room slowly. I saw K lying on a bed and she was wearing nothing but an oversized Husker t-shirt. She had her legs slightly opened and I knew that somewhere in that darkened space there was a crazy lady’s vagina. I didn’t say a word. I just took off my shirt and climbed on top of her.

K: “Oh fuck yeah baby! Lick my fucking pussy you fucking animal!” She said to me as she forced me to take the party downstairs.

Me: This was one of the most poorly kept vaginas that I have ever seen or smelled. I was immediately offended by the uncleanliness of her gap. I had just come face to face with a disease-ridden hatchet wound and now I had to eat my way out. Goddammit, I thought to myself. This bitch hadn’t even touched my penis yet and she was already shoving my face into her scummy crotch, and she already knew just how fucking nasty her shit was. What a bitch!  I opened her stinky jungle book and proceeded to service her.

K: “Oh yeah baby. Keep going, I have a treat for you when you’re done.” She said as she continuously pushed my head into her snootch.

Me: I’m diving in now that I have the thought of some sort of reciprocal treatment once I was finished. So after about 20 minutes of snorkeling in her rusty cock socket, I come up for air. I force my tongue down her throat just to show her my gratitude for forcing my head into the stinkiest of all stinky’s. She doesn’t fight back, and I start playing with her gigantic mammories in my effort to forgive her.

K: “Oh I want more!” She says as she forces my head back towards her fucking dead pussy. “I’m going to make you feel so fucking good.”

Me: I refuse to go back down into that scum hole that she considers her flower and I continue to make out with her. “Got any condoms?” I mutter out with my head between her massive boobies.

K: “In the drawer right there.”

Me: I pull out the drawer that she pointed to. I’m surprised to see about 100 different kinds of condoms, like 4 dildos, and some sort of leather panty type thing. I just grab one and hope that it isn’t some giant condom that will make my dick look small. “Here, help me put this on.”

K: “No, that is absolutely disgusting. I will not help you put a condom on. You can do it yourself!” She blurts out in this instantly weird and angry tone.

Me: “I don’t even have a hard on yet. You’ve just been lying there while I do all of the work. What am I like a dirty mortician or something?” Was my remark to her anger in actually having to do something.

K: “Do you want to sleep on the couch or what?” She says to me as she rolls over.

Me: “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m not quite excited enough yet.” I said in an attempt to at least get some oral action to help me with my limp situation. I was already somewhat drunk and smelling her expired meatloaf didn’t exactly get me all revved up to bone her.

K: “What? Am I not pretty enough for you? You’re such an asshole. You have never said anything nice to me. Why? Why?” She said to me in what was obviously a sudden bout of complete fucking insanity. She was actually crying a little bit.

Me: “Where is your bathroom?” I had to get the fuck out of that place.

K: “Look I’m sorry. Sometimes I just get a little frustrated. The bathroom is right over there and you can treat yourself to some of the whiskey in the kitchen.”

Me: I walked into the bathroom to take a piss and snoop around. I locked the door and decided to start by looking through her medicine cabinet. I opened the cabinet and found a treasure trove of psychoactive drugs. There was Xanax, Prozac, Buspar, Trazodone, Diamox, Neurontin, Bromocriptine, and so many varieties of pain killers and sleep aides that I was utterly amazed. I will not say as to whether I grabbed most of them and stuffed my pockets with wild drugs, but I may have. I then went into the kitchen and found a bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter. I didn’t know how I was going to get out of her apartment with pockets full of drugs that I might have stolen. So I sat on her couch and sipped some whiskey while I thought about it. I began to feel sleepy as I sat there drinking whiskey in the moonlight.

Me: I was suddenly awakened by K standing over me with an angry look on her face. I looked around to get a grip on the situation and to fully realize what was going on. I had apparently drunk half a bottle of Jack Daniels and fell asleep on K’s couch.

K: “You fucking thief! Where the fuck did you put them! I need them, NOW!”

Me: I was instantly frightened by her loud screaming and anger. I did the only thing that I could do in a situation like that. Run.

Me: I bolted off of the couch and pushed her out of the way. I ran towards the door and unhinged the chain to make my exit. I ran down the hallway and out of the door. I could hear K screaming nonsense at me as she chased me. It was December and there was snow on the ground as well as it being bitterly cold outside. That didn’t stop K from chasing me outside while being barefoot. Her insanity worked like a painkiller against the freezing temperature of the ice on her feet. I was running full speed back towards my car that was still parked at Lear Jet’s. I was scared shitless as I could still hear the insane woman chasing me. It was only hours ago that my face was buried in her beaver. I got to my car and fumbled with the keys. I had to use the key to unlock the doors, as it had no remote lock mechanism. I frantically tried to get the door unlocked as I watched the crazy bitch running towards me. I got the door open and jumped in. She was trying to pull the passenger door open as I started the car. I only slowly backed out of the parking stall, because I didn’t want to hurt K. She was crazy, not evil. I then stomped on the gas and swerved past her. I drove home, locked the doors, and went to sleep.

* I saw K come into the Lear Jet’s Night Club after that, but she never talked to me again. I knew that she was probably extremely angry about the giant cache of MAOI’s, painkillers, and sleeping pills that I may have taken from her, but she never said anything about it to me. K was just one of the many adventures that one could take part in while working at the Lear Jet’s Night Club. I had many strange and weird adventures while working at Lear Jet’s. I miss that club dearly, and in a way, I miss K.

The death of a fat body babe

Friday, February 09, 2007

Anna Nicole Smith bought the farm today. That sucks because I can no longer get a boner from looking at her pictures now that I know that she’s taking a dirt nap. Just a minute ago I read a report about her death and you could make a remark about the article underneath it. There were a bunch of remarks by people saying stuff like, “She did nothing for humanity”, “She was just a dumb fat ass”, “She had no right to be famous”, “Blah fucking blah blah!” The people that made those comments are fucking idiots. When it comes to fame or just being known, there is no such thing as bad publicity. I quote Oscar Wilde when I say, “The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.” All I’m saying is that by making stupid fucking comments about her death it is really just adding more fame to her identity. Whether you hear something good or hear something bad about a person, it still sparks an interest in learning more about that person. Like if I were to smell my sleeve and say, “It smells like hot cheerleader pussy!”, or I said, “It smells like fucking boiled armpits!”, you would still be interested in smelling it for yourself. If you don’t want to justify somebody else’s fame then the best thing that you can do is just shut the fuck up about them. I believe Anna Nicole Smith deserved her fame because she had the ability to make my penis stand up. I can look at pictures of fat asses sitting at work and hating their lives, but it won’t give me a boner. But if I look at a picture of a tanned blond woman with enormous breasts then I get an instant reflex chubby just by glancing at her.  Sometimes I’ll even stare at the picture of the blond woman while moisturizing my penis with lotion. Shit, it feels pretty fucking awesome to tell you the truth. I would much rather crank one out while staring at a picture of a hot woman than staring at a picture of some sad ugly mug. Anyway, that’s why she was famous.

Us and Them

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

It seems like everybody is pitted against each other these days. The only thing I see on the news and in commercials now is about keeping people away from your kids, keep people out of my house, how they are trying to harm me, how they are going to steal my identity, etc. I know that there have always been instances of crime, but I refuse to believe that it is constantly getting worse.

In fact, according to the U.S. Department of Justice, the crime rate has been steadily declining ever since the mid 1990’s. There are signs of this decline everywhere and yet I am constantly bombarded with the idea that people are destroying each other and I am next in line. It’s a bunch of bullshit! I had my car broken into when I was in high school, I was friends with a girl that was abducted by a convict that was on the lamb, I have known a person that ended up murdering someone, and I’ve been involved in a very serious car accident that was alcohol related. Those are all very standard statistics that are given as reasons to not trust anyone, and yet I still refuse to turn into a pessimistic pussy that locks my doors and hides under my bed all day. Shit happens ya know.

There are definitely some real assholes in this world but those people are still the minority. By locking our doors and not trusting each other we are only giving that very small group of bad people a huge amount of power. It is the tail waving the dog. This all ties into the fact that we have put way to much trust into our government in terms of protecting us from ourselves, but I don’t want to type about that shit again. What I want to point out is this: everyone on this planet has the same goals in life. Sure some people have different religions and beliefs, but for the most part everyone is on the same quest for happiness and to live a fulfilling life. There is absolutely no logical reason as to why everyone cannot have some little piece of happiness in their life. This sounds like some hippy cockameemee bullshit, but I truly believe in it.

We can trust our neighbor because he basically has the same goals as we do, and there is no reason as to why we would not be able to help each other attain our goals. Everyone knows that goals are more easily achieved when people work together; we even grow up learning this in school. Then when we are all grown up, we’re thrown out into a dog eat dog world. Everyone tells younger people that the “real world” sucks because it is absolutely true.

We are the ones doing this shit to each other. If you are one of those people that passes the legless guy in a wheelchair that is holding up a sign saying: HOMELESS VETERAN, PLEASE HELP, and you think he is just another d-bag trying to scam you out of one gigantic fucking dollar bill, then consider yourself as being part of the problem. Even if he is just an alcoholic that fell asleep on the train tracks instead of being an actual veteran; he’s still worse off than you are. Why not give him a fucking dollar? True, everyone should have to put in some effort if we expect to live in a better world. But that doesn’t mean that you have to devolve into a selfish cocksucker whenever you see someone that isn’t pitching in.  Be the bigger man; that’s pretty rare to see someone being the bigger man these days.

Immigration is a prime example of people not working together. I have no problem with Mexican immigrants coming into America. In fact, I would consider them total fucking morons if they just sat around with their dicks in the dirt while they looked over at us living like kings. If I were living in a shitty Mexican dugout I would definitely take the risk of deportation or prison in order to have a better life. That’s really all that they are doing. This goes both ways though. We cannot assimilate another society of people if they are not willing to assimilate into our society. If any foreigner wants to move into our society then it is a must that they learn our language and our ways of living, not the other way around. That’s great if they want to march down an American street while waving a Mexican flag but they must still live under the rules of an American society. Anyway, why would they wave the flag of a country that was so incredibly shitty that they had to escape it? Immigration has responsibilities for both the immigrant and the society that is receiving them.

This blog is starting to not make sense to me right now because I’ve had 3 cups of coffee in 20 minutes and my roommate is asking me about my acting class as I type this. So fuck off, I’m gonna go pump it up at the James. I call the gym James instead of gym because it is all business when I workout and I want to keep it on a business level between me and my James. I think I’m going to post some actual pictures of me in a few months. I’m working my ass off to get huge and ripped right now so I want to show off my results. I might even put up naked pictures so I can get some feedback on my penis lengthening routine. Either way I will definitely be oiled, shaved, and wearing make up in the beautiful photographs that I choose to display.

An avalanche of homosexuality

Sunday, January 21, 2007

“Homosexual Avalanche” is what I am calling Sunday’s in my house now. That’s a better name than something cheesy like “Gay Sunday” or “Gayday”. I call it this because it is the day that my roommates and I have decided to let our masculine guard down and stay home all day, together. Today we built a glorious fire, I heated up a giant pot of clam chowder, we did our laundry, we chatted and traded tasty secrets with friends on our cellphones, we brought the dogs inside to cuddle with us, and then we roasted marshmallows over the fire while watching “Desperate Housewives”. Right now I am curled up under my clean and cozy sheets with a belly full of creamy clams and gooey marshmallows, and thinking about how we will spend next week’s session of “Homosexual Avalanche”. I’ll keep this blog short and stupid, so I would like to wish anyone who reads this a very pleasant night’s rest and glorious boundless dreams from Ross, Steve, and of course Luke.