Friday, August 31, 2007

Old Roommate

The old roommate (OR) swung by the bar the other day.

OR: Hey, do you ever go on Craigslist?

Me: No, not really.

OR: You should check out all the women who put ads on there for sex.

Me: What?

OR: Yeah, the women will post an ad describing what they do and how much they charge for different things or they have an hourly rate.

Me: Do they have pictures of themselves?

OR: Yeah, sometimes they look pretty damn hot.

Me: How much were they charging?

OR: Most of them were like $150 an hour.

Me: That doesn’t sound too bad.

(Sadly, I’ll admit that I’ve paid more, but that was in Cancun where it was legal. And I was drunk and had problems keeping it up. Yeah, money well spent.)

OR: Some charge more for the GFE.

Me: GFE?

OR: Yeah, girlfriend effect. You know, they’ll kiss and cuddle just like a real girlfriend.

Me, looking at the Renter: The guy’s got the lingo down and everything.

For a guy who’s supposedly never had sex before…

OR: Oh, and I’ve been seeing a lot of prostitutes downtown lately.

Me: Like where?

OR: I was out with [someone I don’t know] at [bar downtown] and the two girls, nice looking girls too, were mingling with the crowd. The came up to us and hinted at paying for sex.

Me: Wow, I’ve never seen that before, not in a big bar like that.

OR: Me neither. And there was this other time at [another bar] where these two black chicks were doing the same thing giving out their phone numbers to a couple of guys. I overheard them talking in more detail about what they wanted.

Me: Black girls? Now you have my attention.

OR: Yeah, the first two I told you about were black too.

All this talk got me to thinking about how long it’s been. It’s been a long time. Not that I’m going to go out and get a hooker. I might have to start trying to woo a woman back to my house one of these days. It just seems like too much work with the flirting and the lying and the trying to seem interested crap. And I’ve been kind of lazy lately.

What was that? You think it’s wrong to lie to a girl to get her to go home with you? Well, my friends, back in the day I was good at it. Damn good if I must say so myself. You don’t get your name put up on the board at your local tavern that says “Don’t go home with anyone named B to the…” for nothing. And I don’t know if I’d actually call it lying, just bending the truth a little. I wouldn’t lie about my occupation or anything like that. I’d just bend the truth to make myself appear to be a nice guy (ha!) and that I’d make a good boyfriend (ha, ha!) and that I was truly interested and would call them the next day (complete bullshit). I don’t know if you consider that lying or just playing the game. In any case, I won the game on many occasions.

Now I just whack off every day in my basement watching porn that I downloaded five years ago. I win those battles of tug of war every time.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Jessica Barton

So I went on Nick Hogan's Myspace page just to see if he had posted anything about how he was doing or what have you and noticed one of his "friends." Jessica Barton, wow, she must have 50 pics on her Myspace page. Damn.

(Her page takes a while to load up but let me tell you, it's worth it.)

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Nick Hogan

Did you see the picture of Nick Hogan's Toyota Supra after he crashed it?

Supposedly he was racing a Dodge Viper. I guess he had the engine stoked out to 1,000 hp. Damn.


I’m like a woman trying to decide on what to wear when it comes to working out. Ever since I quit the gym I’ve been up in the air with how to structure my workouts. When I was going to the gym it was pretty easy. I only had 40 minutes of actual gym time after you included the walk to and from and toweling off afterwards so I was basically forced to do one body part a day. This seemed to work fairly well for me. The only problem I’m facing now is getting motivated to work out when the Brewers and Monday Night Football and as much beer as I could possibly want are a block away. I went to the gym during my lunch time so it was either workout and check out the college girls (and the 39 yr-old) or sit at my desk and think about college girls – I rarely skipped the gym. That kind of workout lost its structure if you didn’t do it every day which is the dilemma I’m facing now. After a lot of thought this past weekend I’ve decided to try lawyer girl’s boyfriend’s workout – every body part three days a week. I don’t even know if I can do this yet with the minimal sleep I get and the countless ounces of beer that flow through my veins but I’m going to try it. Tuesdays are really slow at the bar. And while I like it when it’s a little slow Tuesdays are just too much. So that was an easy choice for a workout day. Usually by Thursday I’m just wiped out from work and my lifestyle and don’t go to the bar so that was my second choice. You should see my weekend schedule. I never have anything planned. Never. It’s awesome (oh, by the way, I found this description for awesome: A fringe sexual act where one party places their big toe in the others anus. This act might result in a blown starfish, blown o ring or ass tulip. 1. I awesomed her while she was up on blocks. Who the fuck thinks up this stuff?). Since I have the Sunday Pool Crew come over on, you guessed it, Sundays, and since I really like sticking my hand down my pants while I was TV on Sundays, Saturday was the obvious choice for day number three. Tonight’s the first day. About a month ago I tried a set up like this for one day and almost died in my basement. I actually counted up the number of sets and reps and come up with the number of pounds I had lifted (32,000 if you don’t count the shoulder shrugs, 44,000 if you do). I’ve posted a copy of what I’m going to attempt to do tonight. You can see I have eight rows going across the page. Everything in each row will be superset – row #1 will be a set of flat bench followed by a set of chins – working your way down the sheet just like you’d read a page. (Now that I’ve typed this I realize it’s impossible to do chins while the rack is set up for bench pressing – fuck!) Anyway, hopefully I can 1) actually do this workout and 2) stick to a three day a week plan. I think it’s going to be easier than planning to workout every night, have something come up, feel like shit because you didn’t work out, manage to make an excuse not to work out the next day, get even more depressed because you didn’t work out, and eventually come to the point where you justify masturbation as an actual exercise. Even though you might be panting, sweating, and tired after whacking off (at least I am), it’s not an actual exercise and certainly won’t do anything for your non-dominant arm.

Sunflower Seeds

I was watching TV on Sunday when out of the corner of my eye I saw the Renter lean over the coffee table. She was spitting out something that looked like the pencils you used to chew in grade school.

Me: What is that?

Renter: Sunflower seeds. I don’t know why you like them, it takes forever to eat them. You have to chew them all up and suck the juices out.

Me: You chewed up the shells too?

Renter: Yeah, isn’t that the way you do it?

Me: Ha, ha, ha! No, you put them in your cheek, crack them open with your teeth and spit out the seed.

Renter: How was I supposed to know there was a special way to eat sunflower seeds?

I wonder if she eats a hot dog starting in the middle?

A little while later…

Renter: Huh, they taste better if you do it your way.

Wait, I shouldn’t say hot dog in front of her. She’s from Korea. Hot dog might translate to a canine that’s been nuked.

Bartender Affair - Kaput

Sadly, my torrid love affair with the 18 yr-old bartender is coming to an end. The Sunday nights of her pouring out her love (beer) for me will be no more. No more hours spent ogling her luscious boobies as she does the dishes in front of me. It was a fast, hot love affair (and furious if you consider the ferocity that I tugged and pulled on Mr. Frankie). But now it is coming to an end.

My Gollumish bartender managed to
get the corner bar to open on Sundays. They were going to start opening on Sundays with the upcoming football season and all but he managed to get them to open this coming Sunday. And get this – they will also be offering free pool (free pool! – me beating off frantically). How he got this through the legislation I will never know. The head manager can be tough to work with. Months back someone noticed that the flat screens in the restaurant had DVD players built in on the side of the screen. So one Sunday night a couple of us (not me, I was way too drunk to be carrying a TV) switched the TVs – they were the exact same size – so we could watch movies in the bar on slow Sunday nights. The Sunday movie night concept was a huge success. When we put movies on every single person in the bar was watching that TV. We would play well regarded movies like The 40 Year Old Virgin and Ladder 34 (or some other number like that). That lasted for about three weeks till the head manager noticed the TVs in the restaurant didn’t match. She got so mad she had the TVs switched back, bolted down, and withheld the paychecks of the culprits for over a week. How my bartender got her to open up the pool table I will never know (but there might have been some sexual favors swapped in the deal).

So my Sunday routine is going to change drastically. Instead of waking up at 1:00, flipping on the tube, watching some movies and fondling my junk I have to actually set my alarm, wake up at 11:00, shit, take a shower, and head up to the bar for eight hours of football (I usually need to leave at halftime of the night game while I can still walk). The effects of the typical 5-6 pitchers in 5 hours takes a radical turn when you add on three more hours and two more pitchers. They offer free food at halftime of the Packers game but by then I’ve had two pitchers on an empty stomach and it doesn’t do all that much good. And then there’s the SoCo. No matter how many times you pee that much beer is going to make you feel full. The last two or three drinks of the night are typically Southern Comfort and Cokes and put me into a twelve hour hibernation till I have to wake up on Monday morning.

I’m wondering if I should send the 18 yr-old bartender a card with a letter explaining the situation. I don’t want to just leave her out in the cold. I know that she has fantasized about having hot passionate sex with me on the pool table and I’d like to let her know that I appreciate those thoughts and that I’ve had them too. But it just can’t be. We have to move on.

I’ll beat one more out for her.

Clipping of 2007

So I ran into Flirt Girl this morning as I came in to work.

FG: Hey!

(yeah, I don’t think she knows my name. but we’re very close emotionally, physically, and spiritually.)

Me: Hi! I haven’t seen you in a while.

FG: Yeah, I quit smoking.

Me: Ah, you’re one of those people, a quitter.

FG: It’s been three whole weeks now.

Me: You know, I heard that if you substitute sexual activity for smoking there’s a much better chance of you staying off the cigarettes.

FG, batting her eyelashes: Is that so?

Me: Yup. So, if you like need some help with that I could make myself available at various points throughout the day.

FG: I’ll have to think about that one.

And no, the conversation didn’t exactly go like that because someone is stupid and slow and just plain lethargic on Monday mornings. Fuck!

But you know what? It doesn’t really matter. You see, I wasn’t really looking my best this morning. Hell, even I wouldn’t have wanted to have sex with myself. On Saturday the Renter decided it would be a good idea to get drunk and cut my hair. Well, I got drunk, she cut my hair, but whatever. What used to look all stylish and handsome…

now is too short to comb, too short to style, too short to do anything but stand straight up. Yeah, it’s pretty fucking hot. I wore a baseball hat all weekend. The baseball hat was a little loose due to the reduction in hair. Can you say last free haircut ever?

Today at work I had to put up with various comments on the fuzz on my head. “Hey, are you joining the Army?” “That reminds me of a fuzzy baby chicken.” “Do you want to borrow my hat?” “You look like a little boy!” “Wow, you must have really pissed off the Renter.” “They really got you in the back, uh, never mind.” It’s called a part people, not a bald spot. Fuckers.

But the weekend wasn’t completely ruined by the Clipping of 2007. I managed to knock out a post early on Saturday about my love for the current Miss Teen USA (which, by the way, prompted an email from her lawyers). I bought four new chairs for the deck. At 3:00 three neighbors stopped over for beer and brats. They stayed for a couple hours and chatted, Mr. Elmer both got his hair cut and got chewed out by his girlfriend, and we had generally a good time. The details of what happened after they left are a little foggy. I know I got butchered by the Renter. I think I made it up to the bar for the start of the Brewer’s game. I talked with lawyer girl’s boyfriend for quite a while about lifting weights (of which I have practically no recollection). Then, well, I don’t know. The Brewer’s game ended, I was pretty much drunk, the crowd in the bar was a little weird, so the Renter agreed to take me to the casino.

The trip to the casino didn’t start off well. As we were at the ATM I somehow managed to flick an ash on the Renter’s seat as she was leaning out the window and burned a hole in her seat and her shirt. Not cool. Pretty soon I’m going to have to buy her a whole new car. For the record that was burn hole #2 and the fact that I have to start labeling them is not good. So no more smoking in the Renter’s car.

I sat at a $25 black jack table and started playing with just $25’s. I hit a rough streak in the beginning but since I was only doing $25’s I was still ok. Ten minutes later I was up $300 (not that I would have realized this in my condition but thankfully the Renter pinched me and kept me abreast of the situation). At this point every hand was a $50. I won one and decided I’d keep playing till I lost another hand. Six hands later I was still playing when the dealer pulled out a five card 21 to kill everyone at the table. I pushed my chips out in front of me, $1,000 in total, and did my best to not fall over as I got out of my seat and headed for the cashier’s box. Not a bad night at all.

On the way to breakfast we decided to stop in to G the hairdresser’s new hangout. He wasn’t there but we still stayed. I had four SoCo’s and Coke (like I needed any more) and chatted with the bartender. “Hey, do you know a guy named G who comes in here?” “You mean G the hairdresser.” “Yup, that’s him.” “He used to hang out at M’s, right?” “That would be him.” Who the fuck gets to be well known around town as G the hairdresser? Which got me thinking, what would my name be? B the drunk? B the shit head? I personally like B the playa but I don’t have any grounds to base that one off of.

I had a hard time sitting at work today. Sunday is usually TV day in the house and this Sunday proved to be just that. The Renter busted out The Band of Brothers DVD’s and we got through two discs before the Sunday Pool Crew arrived. Those two discs had to have lasted a good five hours. That’s five hours that I had my hand down my pants playing with my junk. Yes, you know it, it was heaven. But then today at work my junk, well, got kind of lonely. They went from being cuddled for five hours (and maybe even more time while I slept) to not being cuddled at all (funny how they frown on that in the office environment). As soon as I got home I rushed downstairs to my sex (0%)/masturbation (100%) couch and went to work. God I love that couch.

Saturday, August 25, 2007


I'm sorry, but when you say you're going to be posting regularly (kind of like my shits), please do and not have me go to your site and see no activity. Fuck.

One of my biggest pet peaves.


So nobody goes on this site on the weekends. Fuck all you bitches.

No, really, I love you, please come back. To my back door. Ring the doorbell.


Trying to teach the Renter how to use Microsoft Excel. Bare with me. And I do mean bare it, send me the all the tittie pictures you have. I love you all. Or I will make love to your tittie pictures. Really, I will.

Titties, ahh...

Miss Teen USA

Usually on Friday nights I’ll sit on the deck, drink 12 beers, and write for you in some form of broken English that may or not make sense and may or not have proper punctuation and may or not be racially/sexually/masturbatially appropriate. But this Friday, while half shitting solids half liquids, I got a text from the Friday bartender. “Come watch Teen USA in the air conditioning.” Yeah, everyone knows I don’t turn the air on. So I finished up, wiped for what seemed like forever, took a shower, got dressed and headed up to the bar.

It’s not uncommon for the bartenders to call or text me to come up to the bar. If it’s slow and they’re bored they know there’s one poor sap who lives a block away who will keep them company with a sense of humor only I can bring. And its nice feeling needed so I usually jump at the opportunity.

I walked in to see both the bartender and the woman who I’ve had what seems to be a decade long running joke that I want to sleep with her (well, ok, I do) and she kiddingly downplays it every time (ok, maybe not so kiddingly). And what do you know, they had Miss Teen USA on all the TVs. Holy fuck!!! These girls were absolutely fucking hot! I know, some of them weren’t exactly 18, but I did my best to forget their ages when they showed them and just kept the thought that some of them were 18 so it was all good. I got there just in time for the swimsuit competion. Good Lord these girls were hot. In between talking with the bartender and offering to buy Sex Girl all the drinks she wanted so she could say she was really drunk when she slept with me I could be found sitting at the bar quietly moaning and humping the waitress stand. Seriously, Miss Teen USA was that fucking good.

Friday turned out to be a very good night. As soon as I walked in I hot a shot of Southern Comfort in front of me. Southern Comfort is my drink of choice but I’m just too fucking cheap to order it at the bar. And, as I learned Friday, Southern Comfort straight up if fucking horrible when it’s the first beverage you’ve had for the night. “Good God, you mean I actually like this stuff when I’m loaded?” Yeah, I went on to have six shots in total for the night along with five or six pitchers of beer. It was a good night. And my liver’s expiration date got changed by a couple of years.

Back to Miss Teen USA… Lawyer Guy and I actually placed bets on who was going to win it and dat da da dah, I won when Miss Colorado (and her lovely fake boobs) took the title. (Miss Colorado (Hilary Cruz, oh, the dark skin…), if you happen to read this, and I mean this in the most honest way possible, I will love you and feed you and provide for you for the rest of your life. I will even (gulp) go down on you in the bedroom. Just give me a chance. Trust me, you’ll love it. Greatest opportunity ever.)

I'm sorry but I couldn't find any photos of the swimsuit contest but take my word, those puppies sitting on her chest were simply marvelous.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

FA Alive and Well (and Secretly Gay!)

The FA sent me a link to this article on Yahoo! Finance (provided by on daily habits and expenses with a snide little “you do one or two of these, huh?” comment. The top 10 money drains they listed were coffee, cigarettes, alcohol, bottled water, manicures, car washes, weekday lunches out, vending machine snacks, interest charges on credit cards, and unused gym memberships. They wrote up little paragraphs for each one.

Coffee -- According to the National Coffee Association, the average price for brewed coffee is $1.38. There are roughly 260 weekdays per year, so buying one coffee every weekday morning costs almost $360 per year.

I rarely buy pre-brewed coffee. I’ll go to Duncan Donuts once in a while but that’s only so I can get seriously aroused and masturbate while I drink the greatest coffee in the world. Otherwise I buy coffee in the can and either make it at work or at home. And just like my vodka, the coffee says Roundy’s on the label too.

Cigarettes -- The Campaign for Tobacco Free Kids reports that the average price for a pack of cigarettes in the United States is $4.54. Pack-a-day smokers fork out $1,660 a year. Weekend smoker? Buying a pack once a week adds up, too: $236.

Yeah, I smoke cigarettes. Lately with all the Brewer’s games and preseason Monday Night Football I’ve been smoking about three packs for every two days. At $3.46 a pack that runs me $1,895 a year, but it’s just something that I do. Oh, and it builds character. Just look at how cool that Marlboro Man was.

Alcohol -- Drink prices vary based on the location. But assuming an average of $5 per beer including tip, buying two beers per day adds up to $3,650 per year. Figure twice that for two mixed drinks a day at the local bar. That's not chump change.

I wasn't going to comment on this one but it keeps... pulling... me... in (gravitation). $5 per beer, are you fucking crazy? In the land where the king of beers is not a Budweiser, people in Milwaukee would boycott bars if they charged $5 for a beer. My bar charges $5 for a pitcher (48 ounces). And “figure twice that for two mixed drinks”? $10 a drink? Good Lord, the person writing this article must not get out much. In fact, I’m going to guess the person who wrote this doesn’t drink at all (fucking pussy). Who the fuck goes out and gets two beers? “Uh, yeah, I’ve had two already, I better get going.” Ha!!! Sadly, when I started to calculate my annual spending on alcohol I temporarily lost control of my bowl functions and shit my pants just a bit. It turned out to be just a small brown streak and was easily fixed with a couple spritzes of cologne, but still, I had shit my pants. Using a very conservative figure of $20 per day and a really rough estimate on the number of days I drink (365) I figured I spend $7,300 on alcohol a year. $608 a month. I could be one of those assholes driving around in a Beemer or Lexus with that kind of cash. But then you wouldn’t have any dumb/retarded/disgusting stories to read about on this here website (which is not biased towards the gays so please stop sending me your Queer in the Rear personal ads, really).

(Seriously though, FA, does your wife know?)


Veronica sent me an email today. It appears that she wants to visit the US and start a family with me.

Obviously it’s just junk mail or spam or whatever you want to call it, but I’d reply a couple times if I could get some nude pics out of it. Yep, I’m that hard up over here.

ESPN sportscaster J.A. Adande, Again

On the death of NBA player Eddie Griffin:

One of my first reactions to the sad news was that I never really got to know Eddie Griffin. Later I realized that's because he never played in the playoffs. The playoffs are when casual fans get to know players' names and faces, and when we in the media get to know out-of-town players' personalities.

ESPN sportscaster, casual fan, what? Is J.A. calling himself a casual fan? Sometimes I wonder if these people re-read the shit they submit. I sure as hell don’t when I’m posting something about my three, uh, typo, eight inch penis.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

The Poon Stories Just Keep Coming

Taken from (just happened to stumble across her blog):

that's the kind of lover he was, he would come over or i would go over and we would just head for the bedroom and take our clothes off and hop into bed and start to tang tang - he would put a peice of gum in his mouth before going 'downtown' - i guess i could take that personally, but i don't. for several reasons: most women don't have the scent of fresh lavender coming out of their pussy; there aren't jokes about women's snatch smelling like fish for no reason; if it was that bad he wouldn't have gone down there anyway; probably did it so his wife would not smell me on him...

No hun, your cunt just smelled that bad.

(Tang tang? That’s a new one to me.)

Found this comment on ESPN about Michael Vick:

An incredible lapse in judgment on Vick's part: He has lost his freedom, his $130 million contract and most of all the fans' respect.

“And most of all the fans’ respect”? Dude, fuck that. Your freedom and your $130 million contract come well before the fans’ respect. Do you think Rex Grossman got any respect for fumbling three snaps last night (in one quarter) on Monday Night Football? Fuck no, but he still has his freedom and whatever amount they’re overpaying him this year. Fans’ respect? Bullshit.

Another comment on ESPN:

You people never seem to amaze the rest of us that share this planet with you, you have a government that is solely responsible for thousands of deaths in a war that was unnecessary, you have murders, BLEEP , child molesters known and walking around free, you have more social ills than you can even name, yet you people are crying fowl over a man breeding animals to do what they were originally breed to do...give me a f*%king break, no disrespect, but any fool who doesn’t think this was simply about someone taking down another young, rich promising black man, still believes that racism isn’t as bad as it was during the civil rights movement!

Do people really think that Vick’s being prosecuted just because he’s a “young, rich promising black man”? Sure, maybe because he’s a star in the NFL, that I could certainly see, but just because he’s black? I honestly feel bad for people who see the world in this light.

And speaking of those people…

J.A. Adande from the Los Angeles Times has started writing for In one of his recent posts he wrote, “I write about sports because, for better or worse, that's where most of the country gets its look at African-Americans and I want to do my part to keep the lens clear.” Originally I was going to retort with a little ditty that started like: If black people can openly promote other black people, fo so you better believe yours truly is going to promote the whites. But you know what? I couldn’t bring myself to do it. After a week of plotting and planning I just couldn’t bring myself to write an overly sarcastic and minimally humorous post about how the whites are the bestest. And trust me, I thought long and hard about it. Comments like Adande’s on nationally published websites (come to think about it, aren’t all websites nationally published?) irk the hell out of me. But it makes you think, who’s more racist, blacks or whites? I’d bet my Roth IRA that the person with the “young, rich promising black man” comment was indeed himself/herself black. Being only 30 years old and living in the Midwest I don’t know that much about the history of racism or what it’s like in other areas. I personally don’t see a black person any different from a white person. Actually that’s wrong; I look at black women in a much different light than white women but that’s mainly because of the two black women I’ve had the opportunity to sleep with and, well, wow. One left me with bruises on my hips and the other had the smoothest ass and nicest breasts this young man has ever seen. (Last time I checked the bruiser was going to come over on a Friday night and didn’t show and the other doesn’t want a damn thing to do with me – I have a special way with women.) Anyway, back to the topic. The point of my argument is… I don’t have a point. All I have is a vision where there is no black or white. But of course no one is going to listen to a drunk white boy who masturbates with a condom on and hasn’t seen any action since, oh God, it’s been way too long. And I haven’t shit solid in weeks, just thought you’d like to know that.

And then there was Monday night…

The corner bar just wasn’t the same on Monday night. What started out as a usual night turned into a karaoke fuck fest. Not that they were fucking, they were just fucks. Monday Night Football started at 7:00 and I got there shortly thereafter. I was sitting next to lawyer girl and we had some good conversations. Turns out her boyfriend is thinking about becoming a personal trainer. Dude, talk about a freaking awesome job. While she mentioned there might be some late night and weekend hours, still, you’re working in a gym and not lifting carpet or sitting behind a desk. And from the looks of him lately he’d be well respected as a personal trainer; the dude’s getting huge. The fucker’s also down to a 34” waist. I’d gladly sign up for a three hour session (of weight lifting for those of you who still think I like dick - you dicks). Anyway, when the Brewer’s game started at 8:30 Mr. Baseball packed up his shit and moved over to a different TV as the rest of us wanted to keep football on. (By the way, the Brewer’s won 9-0 and their rookie pitcher hit a homer. Sweet). And then shit went downhill fast. The former black stripper with the absolutely awesome fake boobs sat two seats away from me. Months back one of her dates (who stood eight inches shorter than I) wanted to kick my ass because I commented on her boobs. But seriously, when you have boobs like that… She pretended to be mad but I knew deep down inside that she took my comments as compliments. Either that or she was mad, I was pretty loaded. Her rather large friend (nicknamed Bucky) sat next to me. From what I’ve heard Bucky is kind of a nutcase and the couple of times her hand touched my leg I actually jumped a little. But of course I didn’t do anything to avoid it and even egged it on a little (fat chicks need lovin’ too). As the night went on I learned that someone dropped the chalk down the ball return on the pool table and it was out of commission. I leaned over towards the Renter. “I have half a pitcher left. When I’m done would you like to go to [Sunday night free pool place]? Either that or I’m just going to go home. I can’t deal with this shit.” Oh, and I failed to mention that after returning from the bathroom one time there was a guy who had moved my chair so he could get in to get a pitcher and refused to move when I told him I was sitting there. He was a skinny fuck, too. Fucking karaoke fucking fucks. Yeah, I like them that much.

So the Renter and I went to the Sunday hangout and surprise surprise the 18 yr-old was working again. I got a pitcher from her, tried to tell some joke that probably came out sounding like something Japanese, and played four (five?) games of pool with the Renter. (I’d like to say it was four and we split them 2-2 but I’m not positive, I was well into it by then.) By this point I was oblivious to pretty much anything (including time) and suggested we go to the late night/early morning breakfast place. We went, I scarfed down my food and went to bed at who knows what time. And I lived to tell about it the next day.

If there ever is a day when I haven’t posted for a week or two it’s safe to assume that either I died or I beat myself (off) to death.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Liking ‘Em Young

You all know how I like to joke about checking out the younger ladies. Maybe it’s not so much joking about checking out the young ones (clarify – 18 and over) because I must admit I do check them out, but more of joking about myself because I find myself checking out the young ones. Not that I’m a pervert or anything, but when you see a nice ass/rack jogging down the sidewalk you’re going to look. Picking out a nice butt is a lot easier than picking out a woman’s age.

Remember when I mentioned there was a new bartender at the bar where the Sunday Pool Crew and I go every Sunday? Yeah, well she was working again last night. Ever since she almost dumped a pitcher of beer in my lap I’ve developed a friendly banter with her. When she begins to hand the pitcher over the bar I take two quick steps back in fake anticipation that she’s going to dump another one. Last night I pretended to spill my empty pitcher when I went up for a refill. She laughs at all my dumb jokes and I stare at her breasts – er – yeah, I stare at her breasts.

As we were playing pool last night I leaned over towards the Renter. “Hey, do you think she has a boyfriend?” Summoning up some Ninja reflexes the Renter hopped off her chair and was flagging the bartender down before I could get a word of protest out. You have to pardon me a bit here as I don’t exactly recall what was said but man, I certainly remember one detail.

Me: So?

Renter: No, she doesn’t have a boyfriend.

Me: And…?

Renter: But she thought you and I were together.

Me: Oh puke.

Renter: Then I asked her if she liked guys like you.

Me: And…?

Renter: She asked how old you were.

Me: And…?

Renter: I told her you were 30.

Me: And…?

Renter: She said, “Really? Huh, um, I’m only 18.”

Me, spitting out my beer.

So now the 18 yr-old bartender at the place I go to every Sunday night knows that I am a ripe old age of 30 and have inquired about her in a dating kind of way. Well not really in a dating kind of way; I was thinking more of a sex on the pool table kind of way, but we won’t tell her that now will we.

18!!! Seriously, I just can’t win.

Saturday, August 18, 2007

Greasy Cooters

Since we've been on the topic of poon lately...

I'd make an exceptiong for these two.

Friday, August 17, 2007

Comments on Going Down

Since I've had some decent comments lately I figured I would reward those readers and post them here instead of being hidden under the comment section.

Swandad from NY wrote: That's just plain nasty.
The only thing is, I don't know if he means eating the pussy is nasty or if writing about eating pussy is nasty. Sorry if anyone was eating their lunch when they read that post. But, since I think I know Sir Daddy a little bit, I think I'm not out of line when I say:

Women of New York, Swandad does not like eating the snatch.

Whoops, there goes Daddy's love life.

But then there was the FA's friend in Cali (who, by the way, created his own blog name, Snoop, I kind of like it) who left this tantilizing impression.

Snoop from Cali wrote: B...there is nothing better than eating pussy...feeling them writhe under the talents of your toungue...holding their hips in place, or reaching up to grab a tittie or two...its just the best.
[Editor's note: I love the word tittie, sweet.]

I'm also stunned at how a self-proclaimed slob, like yourself, can have such a sensitive sense of smell/gag reflex. I'm not saying every pooty is clean and smells like roses, I've had a couple that made me want to stay away. The solution is SHOWER WITH THEM FIRST.
[Editor's note: I love the word pooty, too.]

That's my rant, since you love comments. I love pussy.

FA's friend in CA...but you can call me Snoop.

As you can tell, Snoop likes (loves) the pooty. Now don't get me wrong, I love the pooty too, just not when pooty juices are smeared all over my face. Pooty juices are called pooty juices for a reason; only virgins and nerds define pooty juices as sweet nectar. Trust me, there ain't anything sweet about it. Just think, we call shit poo, and the pooty is pretty damn close to the poo hole, any connection there? I mean, you're only a couple of inches (if that) from performing "the tossing of the salad," which has nothing to do with vegatables or dressing by the way.

On a serious note, Snoop, have you ever thought about writing some of those dirty romance novels? You know, the ones with Fabio bare chested on the cover holding some scantily clad woman? Going back to your comment: "there is nothing better than eating pussy...feeling them writhe under the talents of your toungue...holding their hips in place, or reaching up to grab a tittie or two...its just the best." Dude, this almost got me back to thinking that eating the poon was that damn good. I wssn't even drinking and those thoughts crawled into my head. But then good ol' B to the... came to his senses and threw out the idea faster than I can beat one out (and lately that's been pretty damn quick). While you put out a very good effort (both with the comment and with the ladies), I'm afraid I'm sticking to my opinion (firmly) that eating the pussy is just not for me.

You really get them to writhe underneathe you? That's talent.

I've also been taking in other advice from people on the internet. Unfortunately I've actually followed some of this advice. The advice I'm talking about is weight room routines. I don't want to name the source as he may travel from New Jersey and beat me up, but there's one guy out there who is supposedly a professional trainer and puts his ideas on lifting weights on his blog (his arrogant blog). While his reasoning is sound, I just want to say one thing: FUCK OFF!!! I will no longer read his blog as since I started a couple months ago I've only seen my performance in the weight room (basement) go downhill quickly. The philosophy he incorporates includes lots of heavy lifting with compound exercises. For example, he often states that doing "big" exercises like chins, pullups, and rows will both make your back and biceps huge. And it makes sense to a degree. Doing chins I'd be lifting 230 lbs with my back and arms. He suggests doing a couple sets of curls just to hit the biceps at the end of your workout. Friends and family (oh God I hope my family doesn't read this), this does not work for me. I don't know if being 6'5" has anything to do with it, but I need my arm days where I concentrate on the biceps and triceps. So I'm going back to the routine that got me to where I'm at (or was) with a five day workout of chest, back, shoulders, arms, and legs with two days off of rest and maybe a little cardio. Hopefully I'll get back to prime form in a couple months.

Ok, I can't blame him for everything. I must admit I've been drinking a bit more than usual lately. And I've been sucked into watching the Brewer's most nights. They usually start at 7:00 and when I get home from dinner at 6:30 its kind of hard to chose between lifting weights and watching the Brewers (and drinking, God I love drinking). But they've been tanking lately and haven't really been worth watching. I think next week will be more productive in the weight room. Wish me luck.

Make Love Like Your Car

I found this the other day, don't remember where, kinda interesting. Somehow it pretty much fits me to a T.

The car: A Jeep Wrangler or FJ Cruiser

What the car says about its owner: Believe it or not, this person is not a risk-taker, but would very much like to be. “More often than not, this kind of person’s life is pretty routine; he or she is super responsible,” Dr. Orbuch says. “However, this person has a slightly immature streak — that’s OK, by the way — that wants to step out and go wild. This car helps the owner express that part of his or her character; this individual wants to be perceived as young, carefree and spontaneous.”

What the car says about its owner’s love style: Because this driver is most likely not much of a risk-taker, when looking for a partner, he or she will be seeking someone who is. “He or she is up for something exciting and unpredictable and is probably looking for someone who is adventurous.” While the owner of this car is probably very tolerant of high-maintenance people and drama queens or kings, ultimately, Dr. Orbuch says, his or her main criteria in a mate is someone who knows how to have fun.

But if "something exciting and unpredictable" involves going down on a woman, na, not me.

Funny how this blog has gone from masturbation to going down on a woman almost over night.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

No BJs?

I know I just bashed the art of "the eating of the pussy" yesterday, but this sign is just friggin' wrong.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Eating Pussy

When the doctor gave me the prescription for the bronchitis inhaler she told me to ask the pharmacist for directions on how to use it. Five minutes earlier I had told her that I smoke. Uh, I think I can handle it.

Funny how what was intended to be an early night watching the Brewer’s game turned into a five hour balls-out drinking fest that ended at midnight. On a weekday nonetheless.

Having fat ugly chicks pop up as a match on Yahoo Personals is better than having no matches. At least the fatties give good head.

Speaking of fatties, how come fat comedians are always funnier than the skinnies?

How deep is “balls deep”? Doesn’t that depend on the size of the cock attached to the balls? Shouldn’t it be “dick deep”?

I still want a Big Black t-shirt (from Rob and Big on MTV).

I’m still in a state of disorganization since I moved back in to my bedroom. I used to have distinct piles of laundry on the floor; clean and dirty. Last night I got drunk (surprise) and mixed them all together. Not that it’s that big of a deal; I can always do the sniff test and figure out what’s what (or better yet, force the Renter to do the sniff test). Obviously that’s what I should have done this morning. After walking to City Hall today I got back to my office and sweated for a good 20 minutes. Around 3:00 I could smell myself. Not the bad body odor kind of smell. No, that’s too easy to cover up. No, my shirt smelled like I had left it in the wash machine for a week. I tried to cover up the moldy smell with some cologne but that didn’t do the trick. So there I sat in my office for two hours hoping that no one would stop by. Thankfully no one did.

I hear Michael Vick is trying to get less than one year in jail and the prosecutors want more than a year. And you all thought my bold predictions were way out of line. Who’s laughing now? Me! At the fat comedians! While the fat chicks give me head! ‘Cause that’s how I roll.

Why do nose hairs seem to have roots that go twice as deep as any other hair on your body? Seriously, I cry every time I pull one out.

FA’s friend out in Cali left a comment (I love getting comments!): B...I figured out the DON'T EAT PUSSY???!!! Are you insane? or just that selfish?

Eating pussy is just nasty. I’ve done it enough in the past to know that I really don’t like it. The first thing you notice when going down on a woman is the smell. You know, you think of women being all clean and shit but after sitting at work all day or attending classes all day in high school (ooo, young uns) they get that smell down there. I don’t even know how to describe the smell. Maybe musty (bear with me, it’s been a while)? Now that’s not to say that my junk doesn’t smell after a long day at work. Hell, some days I don’t even like to masturbate till after I’ve taken a shower. And then of course I have to take another shower because tugging and pulling at my penis leaves me panting and covered in sweat. Anyway, there is an odor that seems to rise from the female vagina. When you eat pussy you are usually positioned directly above said pussy with these odors rising directly into your nose. Be strong; throwing up on the pussy will most certainly result in you not getting any pussy. Not every pussy smells the same. I’ve had some pussies that were virtually odor free. I’ve had others that I could smell from three feet away in the missionary position. Yeah, if I can smell the pussy from that far away there’s no chance in hell I’m going down there. I even had to flip one girl over once when I was hitting it from behind and the pussy odor started wafting up to my nose. Pussy – odor – puke.

But of course you can’t stop there. You’ve slowly kissed every inch of her body from her breasts down to her belt line. Now you’re hovering over the pussy trying to suppress the gag reflex in your stomach. Now you have to – yeah, you know it – lick it. Lick it all over, especially hitting that little knob on the top of the pussy. Oh yeah, rub your face all over in that shit. That stuff you smelled just moments ago – all over your face. Now your face smells like a pussy. You know what? I can’t even go on with this. Just the thought of licking a twat makes me cringe. And seriously, for all you haters out there, NO I’M NOT GAY!!!

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Too Much of a Good Thing/FG

Sunday I watched The Terminal with Tom Hanks. It’s a decent movie but it’s a little slow. Slow movies and me = nap. I had a lovely nap complete with the snoring and the drooling. But before the nap it was play time. You remember play time when you were a kid when you got to hang out with your friends and run around the playground. Play time in my adult life involves playing with my testicles (friends) with my hand down my pants (playground). As a kid, too much play time would leave you sweaty and exhausted. In 85 degree weather on Sunday I was pretty much in those same two states, sweaty and exhausted, when I decided to stop playing and take the nap. I, and my balls, were content.

Sunday nights I usually play pool with the Sunday Steak Crew. One of the members couldn’t make it and another one ended up working till 10:00 but we still made it out to shoot pool. When you shoot pool you’re generally standing up most of the time. Unless you’re in a wheel chair because some 350 lb woman gave you a really nasty lap dance one time, you’re going to be standing a lot. On Sunday, lying on the couch or sitting on a bar stool was perfectly fine. But standing, walking, and shooting pool left me with this sensation that I can only describe as “dangling.” It felt like my right testicle was just dangling there, waiting for a quick movement that would give it an excuse to fall off and drop out of my shorts. I don’t know about you, but the thought of losing a testicle is quite frightening to me. But I’d bet you’d make some doctor’s blog much more funny after he wrote about the time you showed up in his emergency room at 11:00 pm on a Sunday with your testicle in your hand. “Hmm, what seems to be the problem?” Eventually I got the cute bartender to rub my crotch a little and then everything was back to normal. Whew.

Speaking of fondling my balls… I heard that Flirt Girl moved out on her own earlier this month. I believe she was living with her boyfriend before. Now that she’s out we can make all the passionate monkey sex we want. (If you’ve never had monkey sex I’d advise you to try it sans the throwing of fecal matter.) Now, instead of having her look at me with the “fuck me” eyes while I try to suck down a cigarette I get to have her look at me with the “fuck me” eyes while we, well, fuck. Seriously, I must have died and gone to heaven.

Yeah, it isn’t exactly all that easy. First off, I have no idea what you have to say to women to get them to sleep with you. “Hey! I shaved my junk this morning, wanna bone?” “You know, I haven’t gotten much action lately, would you like to come over?” “If I buy you dinner and a couple drinks will you sleep with me?” Or the classic Joey Tribianni line, “How you doin’?” I thought about slipping her a condom and winking at her in hopes that she’d get the hint but decided against it because, well, I couldn’t decide what color condom she’d like. I mean, you can’t slip the girl a pink condom when she is decidedly a blue condom type of girl. Fucking up on the color could severely decrease your chance of fucking. To be honest with you, I really wasn’t thinking of slipping her the condom but at this point it doesn’t even matter because Flirt Girl quit smoking!!! The smoking lounge was the only place I would ever see FG. We have spent countless cigarette breaks talking about sex, drugs, and women’s underwear and now it’s all gone. I don’t have a phone number, I don’t have an email address, I don’t have shit but a raging hard-on in my hands (well, there isn’t that much that’s raging about it, or hard for that matter). In my fantasy filled dreams we made sweet love every day after work, ate dinner, got drunk, and made sweet love once again leaving my testicles void of anything resembling sperm. She would even pull out her bag of Korean sexual tricks that would always have me begging for more. I even ate the pussy. Dude, it was that good.

(I can’t believe I just wrote that. Eating pussy, fucking gross.)

Now there is no chance for any of that to happen unless I happen to see her in the hall (unlikely) or she starts smoking again (oh God please!). Till that day comes… who the fuck am I kidding, shit like that doesn’t happen to me. I’m fucked.

Friday, August 10, 2007

Mr. Jones Strikes Up a...

I must admit, I watched part of the TNA Wrestling last night because Adam “Pacman” Jones was supposed to be in the show. Being in the show, you’d think he’d have some words with the announcers or with other wrestlers but no, just a back stage dimly lit little ditty where he shadowboxed and said how he was misunderstood and a team player. And of course I got sucked in to watching about 20 more minutes of the segment. Dude, I don’t know how they get that shit on pay-per-view. Not that I’m a big fan of wrestling, but that was the most chaotic unscripted crap I’ve ever seen. What started out as a two man match ended up being an eight man match with garbage cans, chairs, and ladders being tossed about. I think I recognized a couple of old WWF faces (Kurt Engle, the guy with the leather mask over his face and flannel shirt – Mankind?), but other than that they had nothing to compare to whatever the current professional wrestling organization is called today. If you spend over $5 to see the Hard Justice show when it comes out on pay-per-view you’re a fucking idiot. But if you do please tape it for me. I want to see Pacman get injured and violate his NFL contract. Hmmm, possible signing bonus payback?

How about we stick Jones in the Octagon with the likes of Tito Ortiz or Ken Shamrock or Rashad Evans. That I would pay to see. Even though it might be the quickest $30 I’ve ever spent, watching Mr. Jones getting his ass pummeled and tossed around like a rag doll would definitely give me a stiffy.

In other news, I’m still shitting anything but solids. If this keeps up I’m going to be super dehydrated and will end up looking like a dried up raisin of a 30 yr-old man. I’ve tried to drink as much water as possible but it seems like I shit out twice as much as I take in. Truly a beautiful picture, sorry.

Today after I got home from work I had a list of things to do. I wasn’t sure if I could do them all in my weakened condition and all (still have it in the bedroom, ladies), but I was going to give it my best. My initial plan was to lift weights (chest) and mow the lawn. While I did get the weightlifting in, I can certainly tell you it wasn’t my best stuff. Long rests in between sets, embarrassingly light weights, but I got through it in one piece. I’m still alive to type about it. And I did get the lawn mowed, although it did take twice as long as it usually does. The lungs just weren’t ready for a little cardio yet. And then came my proud shining moment: I even washed the Jeep. I sweat my ass off for a good two hours, gulping water the whole time, and I bet you the next time I pee it’s still going to be a dingy yellow. Ah yes, another picture you wanted me to thoroughly describe for you.

You probably could have guessed it already being a Friday and all: I am writing this while (still) sweating my ass off on the lovely deck. After not drinking for three days (Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday), I figured it was time to take off the socks and test out the water. Liking the extra $60-$75 in my pocket from taking off those three days I stopped at the local liquor store on the way home and picked up a very nice six-pack of Samuel Adams Octoberfest and a not so nice $10 1.75 liter bottle of vodka. So far, three bottles in, I’m liking the Octoberfest quite a lot. It’s got a decent flavor (from what I can tell with the nose still partially plugged) and a nice texture (kind of liquidy), but three in and I can assure you it has some potency behind that pretty face. (Speaking of which, has anyone else ever had a dream of having sex with two absolutely hot women who after they’ve had their way with you (twice) they turned out to be vampires? Um, yeah, me neither, just checking, really. But talk about potent sex, I mean, if it really happened, in a dream. I’ll just quite there.) How I manage to save money spending $25 a night on tappers at the bar I will never know.

Oh goodness. The black lady across the street just walked by with her dog (not that I’m defining her as a black lady, just don’t want you to confuse her with the white trash lady who also lives across the street). I, of course, took a little break from you (sorry) and asked her if she found her purse last week. Last week Thursday after the Brewers game I was sitting on the deck and noticed that she had driven off with her purse on the trunk of her car. Being the model neighbor (who may or may not have lit off fire works one memorable night) I chased after her trying to get her attention. Of course, knowing how women only see what’s in front of them when they’re driving, she didn’t see me running along side her car. I used to be fast, both physically and with the women, but I couldn’t keep up. So today I walked down the steps and asked her if her purse was still there when she got to wherever she was going. Thankfully she said it was. After that I tried making small talk, but the whole time her pit bull was either licking my legs (haven’t showered yet) or putting my fingers in it’s mouth. Uh, yeah, I was just a little freaked out trying to keep eye contact with her while her dog could have easily ripped off a couple of my dainty fingers.

Anyway, I have shit load or more stuff for you (I was thinking about going through the sex partners – all female – and rating their best/worst qualities, might still have to do that one) but I’m pretty sick of typing right now so I’ll let you go masturbate in peace. Happy rubbings.

Thursday, August 09, 2007

Fact You May Not Have Known

The human colon/rectum can hold up to half a gallon of liquefied shit.

Seriously, as soon as I woke up this morning I raced to the can to shit. Had I been standing up and bent over I could have gotten a good five feet of distance on it. For two minutes this went on with brown and yellow liquids either gently flowing or forcibly exiting my butt. Figuring it was all done I wiped and was ready to flush when the growl gargle gulp happened (I know you know that feeling). Instead of flushing I put my ass squarely back on the toilet and continued to flush out my lower intestinal tract. Wiping both the sweat on my forehead and the grotesque liquid from my ass, I was ready to flush again. Grrrrump grrrrop. Oh boy, I wasn’t done yet. Once again I assaulted my toilet with the vilest of shit it has seen to date. And once again, it was 100% liquid. I wiped, flushed, took a shower, and crapped yet one more time before leaving the bathroom. By this point I was exhausted, defeated, and yet still a little proud for what I had just done. I had met the challenge and I was still alive to tell the story.

So yeah, I’ve been sick lately. I started to feel it on Monday when I was just a little bit off key. Tuesday I really noticed it as I was tired and had this really nasty cough and stuffy nose. Tuesday night I didn’t sleep at all. It was all I could do to concentrate on my breathing; a deep breathe would leave me coughing and hacking, too little of a breathe – death. It peaked around 5:00 am on Wednesday morning with me rolling around in bed coughing and choking, sweating and freezing. I was told I should go see the doctor and since I haven’t been this sick in quite some time I agreed. The verdict: bronchitis. I figured that’s what it was. Usually I just try to ride it out on my own and sometimes it passes. But after staying up all night on Tuesday doing to best to breathe and stay alive I figured it was time for some medication. As I write this Thursday night I am a bit better but still not up to snuff.

My body feels like it’s either been beat up by five midgets or I went through a 10 hour weightlifting session during which I worked every body part to absolute failure. This morning standing over the sink shaving my face my lower back tightened up on me to the point where I had to do a rough job and finish up quickly. This after I was doing bent over rows with 150 lbs on Sunday. You know you’re fucked up when that happens. Walking into work today my backpack with my leftover KFC in it (and other manly items – ok, fine, it’s kind of like a purse but it’s a backpack) left my shoulder in more pain than I experience when doing shoulder shrugs with 225 lbs. Backpack with KFC feels heavier than 225 lbs – pitiful. In other words, I’ve been pretty sick the past three days. Yeah, I’m a pussy.

Oh, but it gets worse. You see, I tend to booze it up every once in a while. Boozing it up allows me to sleep like a baby at night holding his little teddy bear. Well, since I’ve been sick I haven’t really been able to do that, or smoke cigarettes for that matter. I’ve slept maybe five hours since Tuesday morning. Yeah, I’m pretty much dragging right now, even with the medication. Unfortunately this is going to go on for a bit longer as I can’t imagine touching a beer; hell, even Mr. Frankie doesn’t want to be touched. I never thought there’d be a day when I felt so crappy that I didn’t even want to whack off.

At work today with the cold sweats and liquid shits, I said a little prayer every time I felt dampness in my shorts as I waddled to the bathroom.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

The Break-In

Check this article out if you have a chance. It’s another one about Michael Vick but this one centers on race in Atlanta. One sentence that got me was “Certainly, some of white Atlanta supports Vick, too, though arguably because they are Falcons fans.” This disturbs me. Sure, I can bash Vick on the website all I want, and when I do I’m usually really loaded drinking vodka and lemonade on the deck. He’s still innocent. I might portray him as being guilty, and he might be (99%) guilty, but he hasn’t gone to trial yet so he’s still innocent. It doesn’t make a difference if he’s white or black. Well, maybe it does. The whites don’t have “homies” to hang out with. Let’s face it: whites are just not that cool.

You know, sometimes when I try to write something that is anti-racist and all it takes is one or two bad jokes to make it totally racist. God I’m funny.

So, when whitey runs his dog fighting operation out of his Virginia home, he doesn’t have homies that will turn on him and cough up a testimony. This is all a bunch of crap. This is not about race, it’s about dog fighting. Like Brett Favre wouldn’t be plastered all over the media if he was charged with something like this. And you know, the Packers got Favre from the Falcons. Maybe he was in on the dog fighting too. He is from the down south. Hmmm…

You gotta love jokes about blacks, whites, Asians (slopes), purples, hot Latina whores, and old women with floppy vaginas. That’s what makes America great; we have quite the sampling to make jokes about.

Just like the unconvicted (not actually a word but it should be) Michael Vick, I too am a law breaking citizen of the United States. That’s right, I’m a rebel. Come and get me.

Ok, I didn’t actually break any laws today, but I did break into something. Leaving my house for work this morning in a bit of a hurry (due to five hits on the snooze button), I forgot my keys. It wasn’t one of those leave the house, put your shit in your car, sit in the driver’s seat and look for your keys kind of things. No, it was a close the back door to your house, hear the lock click, and then realize you don’t have your keys on you. Yeah, pretty much sucked.

I usually keep my bedroom window open. Because I’m a cheap bastard and don’t like to turn the air conditioning on, I keep the window open to get some air flow in the house. At first I tried to get that little rubber thing out that holds in the screen window. If I had a key on me I could have pried it out but of course, I didn’t have a key on me. I tried a piece of bark but that didn’t work. Then I noticed there was a bit of play in the frame with the screen window. One shift up, one shift left, and a tug at the right was all it took to pop the window off. (If you want to rob my house it’s pretty fucking easy, I just described the whole operation. There ain’t shit in my house worth stealing. Seriously, maybe my couch might be worth something, and if you’re a sexaholic I have a boat load of condoms and porn DVDs, but other than that, I gots pretty much nothin. Oh, and $10 vodka. I’ll be pissed if you take that, fucker.) Window off, I was halfway in, right? I popped the 20” box fan out of the window and my path was clear. I managed to get a chair from the deck, steadied it by the side of the house, and got the upper half of my body through the window. The only problem with the window is that it’s broken. It won’t stay up/open by itself. It needs something to hold it up. With the upper half of my body through it was my lower back/butt that was holding the window up. No big deal. No, it wasn’t a big deal till the window locked down on my knees and left me in pain and agony. And I still had to get my size 13 shoes through there. I wiggled my way through, somehow got my feet in, and fell onto my bed, panting like an out of shape 30 yr-old who just climbed through his bedroom window. Wait… I was both relieved and still astonished of what I had just done. Hell, I didn’t even care about the dirty footprints I left in the white-turned-blue carpeting (Renter’s handiwork at painting). I was in. Like I was in the “in” crowd in high school which consisted of math geeks, weekend jocks, and virgin girls. Yeah, those were the days.

And they say black guys commit the most break-ins. They ain’t got nothin on me.

Editor’s note: no black men were injured or harmed during the writing of this post. However, if you are a black/white/hispanic female, I just gave you the instructions to get into my room, into my bed, and into my heart. However, unlike the black men, you might suffer minor injuries. My knowledge of the female anatomy below the waist was forgotten on the night I conqured the eight pitcher barrier. Yeah, eight pitchers, or 384 ounces, 32 beers. I'd tell you more about it but, well, I just can't remember. Anyway ladies, I’ll be waiting…

Monday, August 06, 2007


You know you’re a loser when you haven’t checked your email in 4 days and 1) you have no email from friends/family/past hookups 2) you have more emails about window replacements than porn sites (?) 3) your Yahoo Personals weekly email only has one match and 4) your Yahoo Personals match is fucking ugly. Damn it’s good to be me.

Oh, and Katie, if you want any guy to fuck you in your fat ass you're going to have to put better pictures up there. Damn, girl.

Oh, but wait, it gets better.

The name's Katie.

Thanks, toots, kind of figured that one out when it said "Katie" at the top of your page.

I'm a full-time student, living in an apartment with three of the most amazing girls I have ever met in Saginaw.

Ok, are these like amazing fat friends or amazingly sexy and slutty hot friends?

It's really hard to catch me not smiling.

Or with food in your mouth.

I'm looking for someone that I can relax and have a great time with, whether we are lounging on the couch or are out at the bar with friends.

Trust me on this one, the Lite beer isn't really diet food.

I tend to fly by the seat of my pants.

I suppose you could use those as a parachute.

I'm not too big with living my life on a tight schedule/agenda.

Fat chicks should never say "tight."

I love working out, it's the one time that I can get lost in my thoughts and not have a care in the world.

Uh, working out? Like, in the actual gym? Yeah.

I'm a simple girl, and I just like to have a good time. If you want to know anything else, don't be afraid to ask. =)

Do you like Twinkies and Ho Hoes?

I'm sorry, just a little mean today.

But seriously Katie, does your friend playing swords with you take it up the ass? What, she's married? Let me ask you another question. Does your friend take it up the ass?

Sunday, August 05, 2007

Another Four Days Off

I’m sorry dear readers, but I’ve been a little out of it lately. Not out of it like I’m losing my mind or anything, maybe more a little bit out of the loop. And busy. And drunk.

I had last week Thursday and Friday off again. I know what you might be thinking, lazy bum and all, but I usually save my vacation time for the summers to spend some quality time on the deck when it’s nice out. Pre-home purchase I would have already had my flight and hotel booked for Cancun in the fall. Cheap hotel for sure, but I figure why spend $500 for airfare and $300 for a hotel (yes, that’s for the whole week) and get completely loaded in the warm weather and sand when I can save at least $600 and just get loaded in the warm weather on the deck. Sure, I don’t have women in bikinis in front of me (which I make passionate love to in my head), but when you haven’t had sex in as long as I have the broads really don’t do much for you. Not that I don’t like broads, but I do believe that I have lost the ability to mack as Too Short would say.

So on Thursday I endured another rough Brewer’s game. I say endured as they didn’t play that well (something like 12-4) and it was unbelievably hot in the stadium. They had the roof open and all but there was absolutely no air circulation. When I left in the ninth inning I stunk of sweat, booze, and mold. It was not a pretty sight.

Friday I pulled one of my now all too common days sitting in front of the TV. I can’t even tell you what I watched, but damn, what a waste of a day.

Saturday I cleaned. This, my friends, does not happen often. As in almost never. I was getting sick of sleeping in the living room so I moved my bed back into the still not completely painted bedroom. I did laundry that was lying on the living room floor and I cleaned all the dirty dishes in the kitchen. I was sweating like a fucking pig when I got done. Eventually I took a shower and made it up to the bar for yet another five pitcher night.

Sunday I stayed in bed till 2:30. Having my bed back in my bedroom was pretty damn nice. I mentally made out a plan for the day. Get up, lift weights, finish cleaning, write on the blog, and enjoy some succulent steaks with the Sunday steak crew. Well, I’m trying to beat off this post before the crew gets here so this may be the only task that I don’t get done (gotta love relating posting to masturbating, and in some ways I really do get off on this blog!).

As far as creativeness goes, I’m sorry but this post will far well short. Usually shit just comes to me but lately I’ve been trying maybe just a bit too hard. Yes, I’ve been trying. And I’ll try to make you laugh the next time you come back.

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Birthday Fart and Park

This picture was taken on the night of my 30th birthday. What you can’t see is the cloud of stench that completely engulfed us. You would think you’d be safe to drop ass when you’re standing by yourself in the corner minding your own business, staying ten feet away from anyone. Nope. I’m surprised she could still smile. But then again, if she could smile through one of the worst of my farts, maybe she could smile and even fake a moan or two while I'm attempting to sex her up. Hmmm…

Damn I look handsome in that picture.

I know I always make fun of women drivers on here... but guess where I parked today?