Crawl in a Hole and Die!!!

Today, on the way to work, I saw FG walking in to work. I went out of my way, pulled a u-ey, and drove up next to her on the sidewalk.

Me: Hey, how are you doing?

Her: Good.

Me: Yeah, are you busy? I think I have two minutes before I have to be at work.

Her: Ahhhh…

Me: I’ll just see you later.

What was supposed to be an innocent flirtatious comment comes out as a request for a two minute blow job. I did not go to the smoking room to have a cigarette today so I wouldn’t have to confront her. Just too embarrassing.

I am getting the “Stalker” tattoo on my forehead this weekend. In that cool Latin lettering that you can’t read unless your mom is Hispanic.


Browsing around on ebay.com for nothing in particular, I stumbled upon this little gem.

1973 VW Beetle in Mint condition. Appraised at $12,500 in 2005. European Specs. Have 4 new tires. Imported from Germany in 1992. Drove by my daughter for 3 years and has had little use since. Car located in Ottawa Ontario. Canada

Hey, it’s not a bad looking Beetle and it looks like it’s in good shape, but $12,500? The last time I was in Cancun I believe I recall a cab driver saying that they still produced them brand new for about the same price (I was loaded, I might be off on this one). I’d be tickled pink if one of you readers would by me a Volkswagen Beetle. Really. I’d even (gag) go (puke) down (spittem) on (mo puke) you (shit). What I don’t get is that the guy selling his car said “Drove by my daughter for 3 years and has had little use since.” Uh, is she fucking stupid? Unless I was a stuck up rich bitch, I would drive that pimp-mobile till it died.

In other news…

I read yesterday that some German company was testing a cycling athlete’s blood for doping. It was said it would take four weeks. But yet today I read that nine riders on the Tour de France were tested on Tuesday and they all came back negative. Four weeks vs. 2-3 days. I don’t get it. My buddy Stevie told me yesterday that he was watching some of the Tour de France coverage on TV. He said while one of the reporters was doing his thing one of the cyclists was “doing his thing” while riding in the background. Stevie said the dude whipped out his cock and started peeing while he was riding, and they showed it all on TV. Seriously. I could go for some more of Janet Jackson’s boob. Tit-a-luscious.

And the whole Michael Vick thing just gets weirder by the day. Now they’re talking about a paid leave, a $6 million paid leave. Mr. Adam “Pacman” Jones has been questioned and arrested, but never convicted, 10 times since he entered the league. He’s suspended, without pay, for the whole season. Michael “Dog Killer” Vick has the Feds breathing down his neck for running a dog fighting operation, killing dogs, and forking over shit loads of cash for illegal gambling, and they’re talking about paying him to sit out a season? I don’t get it. Will they continue to pay him for 2008 when he’s sitting in jail? Fuck me up the ass and call me Bubba.

And then this came up again (another Barry Bonds poll). Who the fuck cares if Barry Bonds is black or white or who the fuck wants him to pass Hank Aaron (who is also black) on the all-time home run record? Why do reporters, and poll takers, have to keep bringing this shit up? The only difference I see between you or I is your gender, and that only because I might want to fuck you or steer clear of you when you’re driving your car. For the record I was referring to the female gender in both of those cases. (Speaking of the female gender, I had one broad talk with me for a good ten minutes yesterday. Nothing flirty or anything, just swapping drinking stories, but holy fuck was she a close talker. I think she wanted the goods. “Goods” was plural because I have so much to offer.) Ok, I might take that racial thing back just a little bit. The guys I play pool with on Thursdays are black. Great guys, outstanding personalities, big penises, you know, well, I don’t know about the big penises. God, I almost puked writing that. After you win a pool game you usually go over and shake the losers penis, fuck, I mean hand. Generally. I do this, on the rare occasion that I win, to people I don’t know. After I kick someone’s ass that I know I won’t shake their hand, just make some wisecrack to rub in the loss. Last night my black friends did the same to me. I, of course, lost, and D shot me some crack (wisecrack, not crack) about how I almost had him even though I still had five balls on the table. Its official folks: I am accepted in the black community.

Seriously, as much as I like to make fun of anything racial, anything at all, “I gots gold teef” or the classic Latrell Sprewell line “I gots keedz to feed” when he turned down a $10 mil contract, I don’t care if you’re black, white, yellow or purple, you’re good in my book. You’re even better if you have a vagina and are willing to spread the legs. Or bend over. Or go down. Or just let me play with the boobies. ‘Cause boobies are cool. And fun. Boobies. I remember when I was in 6th grade and wrote “boobies” on my calculator – the official start of the accounting career.

I know I’m jumping around quite a bit on this post, but…

Have you ever gone out early (to the bars) with the intent on going home early to get some sleep and end up staying out late and drinking the equivalent of 27 beers? Yeah, me neither.

How about the NBA referee game fixing scandal? I see they only listed two seasons in which the fix was in, but I’d bet (ha!) that the fucker worked the Golden State Warriors game seven years ago that went three overtimes and went over the point total by two (for those of you who aren’t in the know, the point total is the total combined score of both teams, so 88 to 92 would be 180). 63 minutes of basketball compared to a normal 48 and they went over by two. I was not a happy camper. I remember sitting at my computer hitting refresh for 45 minutes while the overtime periods were being played. Fuck. Back then I figured the loss set me back 33 hours of paid work. Four days of work, 63 minutes of basketball, and two points over the total. I still have a scar on my penis from where I tried to bite it to leave myself a constant reminder of the dangers of gambling. No, I’m not that flexible, my penis is so fucking huge it spanned most of the way on its own. It’s huge. When you compare it to my pinky. Toe.

I don’t know if any of you pay attention to that BMI scale at all, but I think it’s full of crap. And I’m not saying that just because I have a small child attached to my waist. Even if I lost the 15-20 lbs I gained when I turned 30 I would still be in the “overweight” club. I think people put too much into the whole BMI thing. It just doesn’t work for everyone. Back when Michael Jordan was still playing for the Chicago Bulls he was 6’6” and 220 lbs. Type that into the BMI calculator – overweight. I assure you Michael Jordan was not overweight, at least not in his Chicago Bulls playing days (Washington Wizard years were a little different).

And welcome new readers! The FA told some of the people he works with about the blog and, to my surprise, they liked it! (Oh, and thank you for the complements.) So, if you have any friends who might be interested in sick but hopefully somewhat funny stories of small penises, whacking off, crapping one's pants, drinking to excess, and best of all, not getting any sex, please feel free to pass it on. What do you get in return? A big old high five, a wet sloppy kiss if you live nearby, and recognition on this very blog. FA, I haven't forgotten about you, your kiss is coming.

I'm sorry, but it's fucking time for the fucking bar. Peace.