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 espn.com. 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.
No comments:
Post a Comment