Friday, November 30, 2007

Just a Little Picture I Found on Craigslist

Seriously, wow.

Quality Over Quantity

Wow, I think I shot my load on that last post.

You know, this blogging thing isn’t as easy as it looks. I like putting stuff up on here but I don’t want to put garbage up. And my life isn’t really all that exciting (well, except for last Monday) so sometimes its hard to come up with quality stories. I don’t want to insult you with some gay story about me masturbating and getting drunk. Wait…

Actually, I have lots of good shit to write about. Usually as I’m lying in bed waiting to fall asleep I mentally write paragraph after paragraph. I even do mental editing. Oh, and its good shit too, damn good shit. Sometimes I find myself laughing to myself in my bedroom. But then eight hours later when I wake up, POOF, it’s gone. I would write this stuff down but it’s really kind of hard to type when you’re loaded and any scribblings done on paper would be illegible. On a website like this, unlike sex, quality is better than quantity.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007


I got up to the bar a little before 7:00. On Monday’s I like to get up there a little early to meditate on what the outcome of the game is going to be. The game was a pretty sloppy one with lots of rain and loose sod so I went with the under in hopes of a low scoring game. At halftime it was 0-0. I think that’s when she walked in.

I had seen this woman before, maybe a year ago. She was kinda tall, long brown hair, nice smile and a rack you just wanted to stick your face in and go brbrbrbrbrbrbr. She walked in and sat next to the Renter. She asked the Renter if she remembered her and they started chatting a bit. At one point she pulled out a seductive photo of herself from her purse. (Seriously, who has pictures of themselves with exposed nipples in their purse? I mean, I have a picture of my penis on my cell phone but that’s just because we’re so close, he’s like my little brother that I wrestle with every day.) At some point in the fourth quarter the Renter told me to sit in her seat. Christie and I started talking and, well, you know, I don’t want to brag or anything but the sweet love making charm came out of the closet and I had her laughing and smiling. Oh, and I don’t think her name was Christie (could have been), but I think it started with a “k” sound, doesn’t matter. I was working it with the flattery and what have you. Actually, I don’t know what the fuck to say to women but I guess whatever I said worked. When the game ended she said she was going and asked if I needed a ride even after I had told her I live a block away. I took this to be some kind of subtle hint and went along with it. We hopped in her car and drove the block to my abode.

When we walked in the house I asked her to not look and the Renter’s mess in the kitchen sink (uh, embarrassing). I got two beers out of the fridge and we chatted for a bit. Then we started to suck face. Then she hit me up for gas money.

Gas money?

I had just loaned Mr. Top $60 earlier that night so I didn’t have much on me. I told her I had $12. She looked straight into my eyes and said that she needed her tank filled.

“So, ah, you won’t stay unless we go fill your gas tank?”

She just kept looking at me.

Goodness gracious, what’s a brother to do? She flat out turned down my $12 and insisted that I fill the whole tank. I was both surprised and a little ticked off by her response, surprised that she was pretty much offering up her body for gas and ticked off because I’d have to submit to her demands to get what I wanted. But damn, it had been a while since I’d had a woman in my bedroom (back in April) so I had a little bit of a dilemma. Yeah, I grabbed a credit card and out the door we went.

When we got back to the house I coaxed her into bed since the heat wasn’t on (but yet holding steady at 56!). We got under the covers and got to kissing. And then we got to fucking. Ah, watching those healthy titties bounce with every thrust was a thing of beauty. We went at it for a good 45 minutes with only one quick breather (more like breathing life into a lifeless penis – hey, I’d had a lot to drink). Eventually I managed to blow my load with a flailing, last second burst of true porn-style fucking. I came and then I crashed in a heap of sweat and heavy breathing.

But wait, hold the applause and fist pumping till later, it gets better.

You see, Christie was arrested this past June for having a rather risqué internet website. She had a stable of girls that would go to bachelor parties and, well, do their thing. Christie wasn’t arrested because of the nature of her business but because she hadn’t registered her site with the state of Wisconsin. She had to pay a $300 fine, perform 20 hours of community service, and wasn’t allowed to touch a computer for three months. Yeah, I know, I pick’em well.

I’d be lying if I told you I found this out after we got busy. She told me about all that at the bar. But it might explain something else: Christie had certain qualities about her in the bedroom. To put it plainly, she put on a good show. She had the moaning, the licking of her own titties, and facial expressions that had been perfected over many years of, well, fucking. It was like having my very own C-grade porn star in my bed. Maybe it wasn’t a show, maybe I was just that damn good. But it’s been seven months; you’d have to think I was a little bit rusty.

(One note for the ladies: please don’t say, “How do you like my pussy?” in bed. Seriously, how is the guy supposed to respond? He has his dick in you, obviously something is working right. “Oh yeah, baby, your pussy’s awesome!” Yeah, that’s gay. And on a personal level, I generally don’t like to hear the word “pussy” in bed at all. I’d rather hear “Fuck me!” than “Fuck my pussy!” I get confused easily. If you say “me” I know what to do. If you say “my pussy” while I think I’m already fucking your pussy, then I start to wonder. Am I in the wrong hole and you want me to switch it up? Did I miss everything and I’m just fucking the seam where your leg meets your abdomen? Is it my teddy bear that’s taking all the action? Seriously, keep it simple. Thanks.)

Anyway, the combination of the arrest and the performance made me a little leery. She asked what time I had to work and asked me if I could wake her up at 4:00am. She said she was still a little intoxicated and didn’t want to drive home at bar close. I leaned over and glanced at the clock, 12:45. I sat there for two minutes thinking. Do I really want this woman in my house, in my bed, while I slumber like a hibernating bear allowing her full access to my house? For some reason it just didn’t feel right.

“What would you say if I kindly asked you to leave?”

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah, it’s only 12:45, you’ll be fine on the way home.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Yeah, I guess “kindly” asking a woman to leave your house after you’ve fucked her is a delicate process. My buddy Mr. Top does it all the time; I’ll have to hit him up for some pointers. Christie started to say something like, “You know, you’re lucky I even came over.” or something like that but stopped and didn’t say anything else. She put her clothes on, threw on her coat and walked for the door. I tried to toss a nice “Drive safely” in there but I don’t think she caught it as she raced out the door.

Ah, yes. I walked back to my bedroom with my chest puffed out and a smile on my face.

I think I actually made out on the deal. You figure if you take a woman out to dinner its going to run you at least $40 and that’s at Applebee’s or some place comparable. And then after dinner you have to go out for drinks. That’s going to run you anywhere from $20 to $60 depending on what she’s drinking. I got laid for a $3 beer and $31 in gas. I don’t know about you guys but I say BOOYAH!!!

On another side note, I said I haven’t had sex in a while. I don’t know if common practices have changed in the past months. Is it normal to get a blowjob while you have a condom on? The only other time that’s happened to me was in Mexico and, well, I kind of paid for that one, too. But after masturbating for the past year with a condom on, the blowjob with a condom was pretty fucking cool. Something different, you know?

The other thing that bothered me a little: she knew how to put a condom on better than I can. Granted, I was a little loaded myself, but I’ve been “practicing” with condoms on for quite some time now, I would consider myself somewhat proficient. What does it mean that the woman in my bed, who doesn’t have a penis, is more gifted than I in the art of putting a condom on? Seriously, it took her less than a second. She had this technique where she’d hold it in one hand and effortlessly slide it down while at the same time she’d go down on you. I don’t think they teach you that in sex education class in high school.

Awe, fuck, I had sex with a hooker. Wait, I had sex with a hooker! And it was cheap! BOOYAH!!!

No, I actually doubt she was a hooker; she would have wanted more than $31. Probably just a desperate woman who was a little down on her luck and needed gas to get home. I’ll take it either way. God I love desperate women.

Ice, Ice, Baby

If you’ve watched any TV on any channel lately you’ve seen them. If you listen to the radio all day you can’t avoid anything short of 15 of them. Every year around this time (and in February) the jewelry ads are unavoidable. It doesn’t matter what you’re watching whether it be reruns of Seinfeld, NFL football, or the Spice channel, there will be at least one ad for Jareds and Shaws and Zales in every commercial break (I actually wouldn’t know about the Spice channel although I think a diamond studded cock ring would look nice on me). All the ads are too much. They make me sick. So I decided to make my own diamond ads (ok, the FA sent them to me). Here they are for your enjoyment.

I've got a good one for you tomorrow which involves beer, money, more beer, and sex, pretty much in that order. Yep, old B to the... got a little action last night. About time.

Sunday, November 25, 2007


Wow, I’m whooped. After a four-day weekend like I just had, man. The weekend officially started on Wednesday night. From that point till about 1:00 pm on Sunday, well, I don’t remember a whole lot of what went on. I know I got drunk twice on both Thursday and Friday. Saturday I spent some quality time (watching TV) with the family since the sister had to go back to school today. By the time Saturday night came around I was just tired. Ended up having four pitchers and going home when the Bucks game was over.

Sunday morning/afternoon I stayed in bed till 1:00. After the weekend I had I needed some recovery time. So what did I do after I got up? Changed the tires on the Jeep and finished raking. Recovery time my fucking ass. By the time I got the polished rims off the Jeep and the stock ones back on my knees were throbbing – both of them because of course I was favoring the bad one. I stood there in my driveway trying to enjoy a cigarette and I just couldn’t do it, I had to sit down. But as I sat there I looked around the neighborhood and it seemed like everyone was taking advantage of not having a Sunday Packer game; everyone was out doing yard work of some kind. I looked around my lawn and noticed quite a few leaves had fallen since the last time I raked so I did that again (and watched the wind blow everything into my neighbor’s yard - he, he). I still need to clean out the gutters but by this time I was done. Not only were my knees throbbing but I was soaked to the skin. I’m not a doctor or anything but I don’t think wearing wet clothes outside when its 35 degrees is a good idea.

After all that I took a shower – man did I need it. The Renter had been watching makeover shows all afternoon (seriously, I don’t get it) so, feeling like a prisoner in my own home I had to pack up the computer and get out. I went over to the parent’s house, figured there wouldn’t be anyone home and pulled up Showtime on Demand. I had seen Four Brothers listed on there before but never had a chance to watch it. If you can stand violence (just shooting and a little blood) I’d seriously recommend the movie to anyone.

(I know I’ve been giving props to movies that are two years old or older. I haven’t really watched any movies in the past three years. Hell, I didn’t even own a VCR let alone a DVD player for two of those years. Just be thankful I’m not doing movie reviews on midget porn.)

Tonight, Sunday night, well, there isn’t much going on. The Eagles and Patriots play at 7:15 central time but fuck, the Patriots are favored by 22 points. What kind of a game will that be? (Now watch, I’ll go to bed at halftime as planned and the Eagles will make a fourth quarter comeback and pull off a win. By the way, did you catch the third/fourth quarters of the Bears/Broncos game? I didn’t think they’d ever stop scoring.)

As it is I have to take off. The parent’s have a cat and wouldn’t you know it, I’m allergic to cats. At least the reaction isn’t as bad as when I down a glass of chocolate milk. That ain’t pretty.

Friday, November 23, 2007

It's Hard

It's really hard to put up posts when you get drunk twice each day. God I love the holidays.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!!!

This is what I woke up to this morning. First there was the temperature. (Later I actually turned it on, up to 60.)

That reads 52 degress if you can't see it. And then I looked outside and saw this.

But don't worry, boys and girls, old B to the... has some hot wings in the works.

I'll be sweating during halftime of the Packers game. If that doesn't do the trick, I have my Yahoo girls to warm me up. (Yeah, if you put your picture on Yahoo Personals, and you're kinda hot, there's a good chance I've "made love" to you. Oh, and it doesn't matter where you live, I search all the major cities. Love ya all.)

You know which one I'm looking at.

And no, it's not the hairy one. (I would go on and talk about how nice her smile is but it would just end up with some lame joke about her great skillz at giving head that would end up sounding really stalkerish and we just won't go there.)

Yeah, that one's a school teacher. Where the fuck was she when I was in school? (The teddy bear in the background adds a nice school girl touch.)

Any chick that can do that on top of a car in a skirt is more than welcome in my bed.
Titties are always nice.

The same applies here, titties are always nice.

(I figured I'd stick with the Yahoo Personals girls here since the last time I posted "B to the...'s Hottie of the Day" I got yelled at and bitch slapped and (gasp) denied sex. But hey, how about one more time, just for old times sake?)

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Giving a Little Back to You

I’m putting this up on Wednesday night. I doubt most of you will wake up on Thanksgiving and scramble to your computer to pull this site up. I don’t blame you; most of the shit on here is garbage anyways. But, if you happen to read this before 11:30 central time on Thursday, you too could cash in on this truly golden opportunity. This opportunity, while not life changing, could alleviate that burden known as Christmas shopping. Not that you wouldn’t have to go Christmas shopping, but your Christmas shopping would be paid for already. Who likes paying for the newest game station when you get socks in return? (Ok, I’ve been burned in the past.)

Green Bay Packers -3 (or -3.5, doesn’t matter).

The Packers play at 11:30 central time this Thanksgiving. Go grab your man and lay down the lumber. If you don’t have a man, check out (not that I’m promoting or supporting internet gambling on this website, because that’s just wrong and probably illegal, but I think they still except American money). Click on the NFL lines, check the box that says “Green Bay -3,” unload whatever you can afford to, and then add another $500 (because it isn’t gambling if it doesn’t hurt). Ok, that’s going a little overboard, yours truly is placing a modest wager of 200 roses (we have to use the secretive escort service values here) in hopes that the Packers will win by more than three. I’ve only wagered on the Packers once this season because I don’t like putting money on home teams. If you think about it, there’s only one out of four winning scenarios. If you analyze the game from an outsider’s point of view, think the opposing team has the edge, and put money on the opposing team you either win your bet while your home team loses or your home team wins and you lose your bet – neither one of those sound like a winner to me. The other option is to bet with the home team. In this case, either they win or they don’t, and if they win they might not even cover the point spread which is still a loss as far as the wallet is concerned. So far this season the Packers are 8-1-1 against the Vegas line. That’s almost as good as the New England Patriots (9-1 vs. the spread). You know what I say? Giddy up!!!

This game is truly golden. Trust me. I’ve got this one called correctly. I’ve done my research (gotten drunk and woken up with this vision). Brett Favre and… [silence, crickets chirping in background]… the running attack will come through this Thanksgiving against Jon Kuntna and the Detroit Lions. For those of you who have visited this site since the inception (none of you) or at least for the last year (there might be some still out there), this is what you have been waiting for. For all those stories about masturbation, shitting, getting drunk, and shitting on myself while drunk that you’ve put up with, well, this one makes up for all of that and then some.

While my hopes of becoming a millionaire (or at least getting laid?) through my words of inspiration on this here blog are fading fast, dear readers, I’m putting this one out there for you to profit from. All I ask is that you put aside some of that newfound money and send me a hooker. She doesn’t even have to be cute or hot. Someone’s getting a little desperate over here.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

The Leg (And No, Not a Chicken Leg, Well…)

At this point I’d like to thank all of you who have sent me concerned emails regarding the whole knee surgery (none, bastards).

(I’m really kidding with you here. This is a stupid blog, I don’t expect any emails from ya’ll. Blogs aren’t really supposed to be interactive except for maybe the comment section. But if you’re looking to hook up…)

The knee surgery went well and the recovery is an ongoing process. The doctor said I really didn’t need any physical therapy, I just have to keep on working on the range of motion. Yeah, well I’ve been doing this every day sitting at the corner bar, bending the knee further and further every day. So last week Friday I thought it was time for a little leg workout in the gym. At the end of my typical back workout I sat down on the leg extension machine. Setting the pin at an even girlishly low setting of 15 lbs (I know, pussy) I started doing the one legged extensions. Friends, it wasn’t pretty. The 15 lbs was just a starting point. I probably could have done more but I was just starting out and didn’t want to over do it. If you were there you would have seen me gripping the seat and grinding my teeth through a two minute long set. I know that sounds pitiful (I’m glad there weren’t too many people in the gym) but like I said, I didn’t want to over do it.

I didn’t want to over do it but of course, I did. My leg still hurts four days later. I guess when you don’t use a muscle for two months and then try to work it out, no matter how little you do, you’re going to feel it. I was limping around the office today just like I did a month ago. But it was a start. I just hope the next leg workout doesn’t end with the same result. I already had skinny legs; I don’t need to be called Chicken Leg any longer than I can help it. I’ll give it a shot again on Wednesday and see what happens.

On another note, I got 245 lbs up on the bench press twice. When I first joined the gym a month ago 185 lbs was tough. Hopefully I can get back to my hey day shape of 2001 when I was doing 245 lbs 10 times. (The last time I actually tried to match that was two summers ago – I ended up tweaking my back/shoulder and had to do pushups for my chest workout for three months.)

I’ll see if I can shit myself tonight so I have a good story for you tomorrow (or sometime on this extended weekend, I don’t think many people will be visiting here since you won’t be at work – I won’t tell your boss, your secret’s safe with me.)

Monday, November 19, 2007


It’s getting to be close to Thanksgiving. For most people this is a time for family gatherings, good eats and maybe a little football. If everything falls in place for yours truly it will be me, a frozen pizza, and a whole day of football on the 61” big screen.

Years ago my family started going up to Wisconsin Rapids (three hour drive) to visit with my aunt and uncle and two cousins. My other aunt and uncle and six kids would make the drive up from Illinois. All these relatives are from my mom’s side. None of them are normal. Coming from me, you know this ain’t good.

I haven’t gone the last two years.

Between my dad faking falling asleep and the stupid board games and the snowy TV, Thanksgiving really sucks ass. But this year I might have a real excuse (well, at least a pretty darn good one). You see, the Green Bay Packers play at 11:30. I haven’t heard the travel plans yet but if they coincide with the Packer game you better believe I’ll be watching it from the comfort of my living room. The Packer’s are 9-1 and have a very good chance of beating the Detroit Lions (even though the game is in Detroit). Even if we did get there by 11:30 there’s no guarantee that their TV will get any reception. And who knows what time they’d be having the Thanksgiving meal. I could be stuck in some painful conversations while Brett Favre is hitting Donald Driver on a slant route for a touchdown. The NFL season is only 17 weeks long, 20 if you include the playoffs. It’s not like I’m skipping out on the family for a Brewer’s game.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Cat Got Your...


Me: Did you want to go and watch the Badger game?

It was on the Big Ten Network, not many bars around here carry it.

Renter: Sure, where?

Me: I figure we could try Steve's first, they have pool tables. I'm going to get some cigarettes.

After returning from the gas station...

Me: You know, maybe we shouldn't go to Steve's because you usually get pissed at me for kicking your ass in pool.

It's now 8:00 and she hasn't spoken to me since. Seriously, I don't understand women at all. But the silence was kind of peaceful.

Beautiful Girls

I finally got the Renter to watch Beautiful Girls last night. Dude, seriously, this is probably my most favoritest movie of all time.

Friday started out as most Friday's do, sitting at the corner bar. After six pitchers (48 ounces each) I got bored. I asked the Renter if she wanted to go and get a movie. The Renter agreed and came up with an even better idea of getting take out food from Johnny's ($7 for a four egg omlette and hash browns, pretty much all one 230lb guy can eat). So we went to Blockbuster and I insisted on getting Beautiful Girls. The Renter bawked a little bit but since she hadn't seen it before she went for it. And you know what? She liked it! Like I would force her to watch a bad movie.

And I pretty much killed my 1.75L bottle of Southern Comfort in the process. Fuck, that shit ain't cheap.

Sometime this weekend I have to watch Transformers too.

Oh, and let me tell you, a 61" TV when you're loaded is a thing of beauty. No one-eye-squinting neccessary.

Bond’s Indictment

If I hear one more ESPN anchor ask the question or one more commentator bring up the topic of race in the Barry Bond’s indictment I’m going to slap the shit out of the TV screen with my cock (not my TV, of course). Last time I checked Martha Stewart looked pretty damn white to me.

(For the record, Barry is not being indicted for using steroids and Martha wasn’t indicted for SEC violations. They both lied to the feds, plain and simple. See ya in the jail shower, Barry.)

Ok, I’m going to get a little racist here. Why does every black commentator jump to the conclusion that Barry is being singled out because he has the home run record and that he’s black? “This was the steroid era and they’re singling him out.” He lied to the feds, that’s it, done deal. Actually, I don’t think my viewpoint is racist, it’s just how it has been playing out.

Sorry if I offended anyone but that's the way I see it. I look at life without any prejudice and when I see something swaying one way or the other on TV I call it.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Lord of War

Lord of War with Nicholas Cage, Ethan Hawke, Jared Leto, and Bridget Moynahan. I just got done watching it a half hour ago and fuck, wow.

(Bear with me here – or bare with me, I haven’t seen titties in quite some time and don’t know if I’d even recognize them if I did see them – but I’m not a movie critic. Hell, I don’t even watch many movies. I’m a sports fan and a beer fan and since those two go so well together I’m usually watching sports. Unfortunately this time of year it means I’m watching a lot of the No Busting Ass league – the NBA – the only professional sports league with guaranteed contracts.)

Cage is a big time arms dealer; big time as in flying full size prop planes into Africa loaded with AK-47s, buying six tanks and getting one free, and buying whole fleets of attack helicopters. He starts out selling one Uzi and by the end of the movie he has connections with the president of every nation, even the self-proclaimed presidents of those third world “democracies” that have five year life spans. It’s similar to the movie Blow with Johnny Depp but it’s a little bit more on the dark side. Ethan Hawke plays an agent for Interpol and he’s constantly on Cage’s ass. Watching this movie didn’t help my Big Brother paranoia at all. The FA calls me on this at least once a month. Even though I was clean as a whistle (and sober) driving home from the parents house I kept checking my rear view mirror (ladies, know what that is?) feeling like I was being followed.

Anyway, it was just one of those movies that left an impression on me. I’m not a big Nicholas Cage fan but he was pretty damn good in this movie (unlike in Con Air, that was painful). So if you have two hours to spare I would suggest checking it out.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

My Favorite ESPN Reporter

Rachel Nichols, words cannot describe my love for you. If you happen to search the internet for yourself (don’t all celebrities?) and you somehow happen to come across this website, please, pretty please, email me. Maybe we can hook up if you’re working the Packer game this weekend. I won’t tell the hubby.

(Wait, that sounded kind of stalker-ish. God I have no women skills.)

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Sprint PCS

Hey, Sprint, I’ve got a couple pointers for you. The next time you call me about a new phone and a new plan, could you have someone who speaks English on the other end of the line? Not that I have anything against people who don’t have English as their native language, but do you really think I’m going to sign up to get a new phone and a new service plan when I have no idea what an LX160 by LG is and can’t even understand how many minutes are included in the plan? “We’ll give you an LX160 by LG free of charge.” “Uh, does that have the pocket pussy option on it? P-o-c-k-e-t p-u-s-s-y. You’re not sure?” Seriously, you’d think they’d know enough English to understand that but no, she didn’t. And yes, I really said that. She probably had to ask her supervisor what that meant. “Sir, what’s a pocket pussy?” “Have you been looking through my desk again?!” Yeah, she may or may not still be employed.

She thought she was doing well as I said “ok” every time she paused. She thought she had the sale in the bag. “Shall we mail that out for you today, sir?” “No sweetie, not unless it has the pocket pussy option.” I didn’t say that, but I did tell her that I’d think about it, at least what I understood of the conversation. Then she pointed me to some link on the Sprint website. “Are you looking for it, sir?” as if I was sitting in front of my computer right then (actually I was) and was going to go straight to their website (sorry, hun). I’m not going to agree to a two year contract after a two minute conversation.

I shouldn’t say that. The plan I have now I signed up for after standing at the Sprint kiosk for two minutes. Like the TV purchase I wasn’t all there, not even sure if you can call what I was doing standing.

The other thing is, and remember I’m really not that normal, I’d lose my pool game that I play six times a day as I’m sitting on the crapper. What would I do to bide my time as I grunt and groan in fecal delight? Fuck that, I’m keeping that phone till either the battery dies or I drop it in the toilet. Anyone want to make odds on which one it will be?


My sister is away for her first year of college at Purdue. I’ve just learned that she’s come down with mono and a bladder infection. I really don’t want to know how she got this. Really, really don’t.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Wing Span

For those of you who don't know, this is the second selection in the 2007 NBA draft, Kevin Durant. Seriously, check out how long those arms are. If Yao Ming of the Houston Rockets

had arms that long he'd be unstoppable.

Other than that I don't have shit for you. Great Packer game, 8-1 now. Oh, and I have to mention the 13 hour hybernation (from 6:45 to 7:45 Monday morning). God I love getting drunk and sleeping for half a day.

Peace out, homies.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Vacuum Cleaner

[Sitting at the corner bar watching a commercial for a vacuum cleaner.]

Me: That’s a huge vacuum cleaner.

Renter: It’s not a vacuum cleaner, it’s a steam cleaner.

Mr. Top: Those things are fucking expensive.

Renter: No, they’re really not that bad. I bought my ex-husband one for Christmas a couple years ago.

Me: You bought him a vacuum cleaner for Christmas? That’s as bad as getting socks.

Mr. Baseball: I bought myself socks for Christmas last year.

Me: Did you wrap them, too?

Mr. Baseball: Yeah, but then once I wrapped them I forgot what it was. I was hoping it was a vacuum cleaner.

Me: I always hated getting socks.

Renter: What kind of gift would make you happy?

Me: I don’t know. The best Christmas was when I got 20 Transformers.

Renter: You really don’t get excited about Christmas or gifts, do you?

Me: No, they’re usually disappointing.

Renter: What if you found a porn star or a hooker underneath the Christmas tree?

Dear Santa, I’ll be the bestest boy ever from now till Christmas. I promise I won’t play with myself or fart on the Renter’s head. If you can come through on this one I’ll owe you one, big guy.

Saturday, November 10, 2007


Normally I can deal with any situation that I might come across. I’m a pretty easy going guy. When karaoke starts at the corner bar I head back to the pool room to avoid the loud music and karaoke freaks. I can tolerate talking to drunk people throughout the night because I know at some point I’m going to be that drunk person in someone else’s eyes. But there are a few things that irk me a little.

Empty pitchers. This doesn’t happen too often as I usually ask for a refill as soon as I fill my last glass.

Standing in checkout lines. It doesn’t matter where, the gas station, Wal-Mart, the grocery store, standing in line for more than a minute makes me sweat. Good thing I don’t shop much.

Stupid drivers on the road. If you know you need to make a right turn half a mile down the road get in the right lane NOW. And it isn’t mandatory to put on your brakes when you’re merging on the freeway but a turn signal would be nice.

Nursing homes. God those people are old. And I thought I was the only person who shits their pants.

Stairs. I’m lazy.

Feeling hungry. This doesn’t happen too often either but when it does I get irritable and cranky.

Friday I experienced a situation that was ten times worse than any of the above. Around 1:00 I went downstairs to have a cigarette. While I was walking to the elevator I sneezed, big time. And I peed my pants a little. Actually it was a little more than just a little. I could feel the dampness of my underwear. It didn’t dry out till roughly 5:00. I had to sit at work for four hours in my peed in underwear. Talk about gross. I sprayed some cologne on my crotch to cover up any smell. But what else could I do? I couldn’t take off my underwear. I’ve gone without underwear before and it wasn’t a pretty sight. If you give Frankie more room than he’s used to he’s going to go roaming – at very inappropriate times. Being confined to my desk because I have a raging hard on is not an option (just mentioning the word “spreadsheet” or “Excell” gets me aroused). So there I sat in my damp underwear spraying cologne on my crotch every hour.

After reading this story, as hard as it is to imagine, yes ladies, I am single.

Friday, November 09, 2007

How Do You Do It Part 2

It’s still early, and I know this isn’t a contest, but I think the first comment I got on the masturbation topic is going to take the cake. Seriously, I read it ten times in five hours. I just can’t get enough of it. I tried to think of some kind of response to it like “oh, I’d love to see that” or “good God you should be writing those books with Fabio looking guys on the cover” but nothing I’ve come up with even comes close in comparison with the comment. So, here it is:

I'm not sure if you want a girl’s comment on masturbation, but I'm going to give it to you anyways! I masturbate about three times a week. Most of the time it's in my bed, laying down before I go to sleep. I am usually thinking of scenes that would be great porno scenes like orgies with a 70/30 ratio of women to men (I love girl on girl action!!) or scenes where I'm getting fucked and a whole bunch of people are watching me, usually touching themselves, too. The other times I do it is in the shower. Not exactly while I'm taking a shower, but after. I don't have one of those handheld massage sprayers so I lay in the bottom of the tub with my legs spread open and against the wall so that my kitty is right under the stream of water coming out of the faucet. Holy shit! Talk about a great orgasm! So anyways, I know this really won't help you out in your theories, but I hope it turned you on a little!!

So, whoever of my dear readers sent it, thank you, thank you very much, and of course it turned me on, and not just a little. Good thing I was wearing my briefs today otherwise it would have showed.

(On a side note: this wasn’t meant to be some sick way for me to get off. The FA and I have a rather heated debate about when/where/how people do it. In order to resolve this debate I need some feedback from you. Guys, girls, trannies, it doesn’t matter. I think it might be interesting comparing the differences between men and women and how they go about the delicate process of self-love.)

For the rest of you, what are you waiting for? Post it. And then do it. Think of it as a clinical study for a well known university. For as much time and effort that I put into this stupid website telling you stories about my gay ass life you can certainly afford me two minutes of your time. Oo, that would be another good question, how long it takes you. Me personally, I can probably do it in 45 seconds which makes no sense at all since I can have sex for 45 minutes and not cum (tell me about it, it’s frustrating when the chick is telling you to cum on her face and you can’t uphold your end of the deal, well, not that any chick I’ve had sex with has actually said that, but you know what I mean). So, click here (see, I linked it, can’t make it any easier for you), give me your thoughts and I’ll love you long time.


I shouldn't make fun of Swandad, he has me linked to a blog that's more well known than mine. Just kidding with you, buddy.

How Do You Do It?

This was the FA’s idea. Since I posted on this world renowned blog that the FA whacks off while sitting on the toilet (wife ain’t putting out?), he asked that I ask you, dear reader, on how you do it, it being masturbating. I know this is kinda personal and all but if you would take two minutes and post a comment on how you do it maybe we can settle a little dispute the FA and I have. Anonymous comments would be appreciated, I don’t need to know that Swandad whacks off in the living room while his roommate is in the shower. Or that he thinks about his roommate while doing the deed.

So, if you could somehow manage to answer one or more of the following questions we might be able to get to the bottom of this.

When do you masturbate?

Where do you masturbate?

What do you masturbate to?

And the main question…

Do you stand, sit, or lie down when masturbating?

Hopefully you don’t feel weird commenting on this and I will appreciate all responses. Knowing the worldwide attention this blog gets I’m hoping for 400 responses (more like 4). Maybe after a week, if I get enough responses, I can sit down and analyze the data and come up with a couple whacked out theories for you (whacked out, get it?).

This all started while the FA and I were waiting for a flight at O’Hare International. We were sitting there sipping our Duncan Donuts coffee when the FA told me he does it in the bathroom so his wife wouldn’t know.

Me: You shoot your load in the sink, right, you know, easy clean up?

FA: No, I do it on the toilet.

This floored me a little knowing the foulness that comes out of my ass. Why would one take such a lovely, beautiful act such as masturbating and do it where yesterday’s Taco Bell ends up? That’s just wrong in my opinion. (But it does bring up the thought of masturbating while you’re shitting. There has to be a porno DVD on that. If not there will be one soon. Trust me.) So the FA brought the question up at his weekly pizza luncheon with the fellas and the results were mixed (but Gar did say that he has to shave his penis each time so he can find it, that hairy bastard). That is why I’m turning to you for help. I don’t ask much of you, well, besides for the boob and ass photos. Oh, and don’t tell me you don’t masturbate. I’m not going to believe that one.

And related to this topic I have a confession I have to make. Twice this week I’ve masturbated… oh, this is tough… without a condom on. Yes, I know, how could you, unprotected whacking, I’m so irresponsible. But man, I’ve just been lazy lately and the whole condom process just takes a load, er, lot out of me.

Ok, enough of that, post your comment. Pretty please?

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Just Shit

Here's to drunk blogging.

Trust me, it's as painful for you as me.

All the backspacing and shit.

I must admit.

I've had phone conversations with a girl in high school (when I was in high school) that were just letters, not words, pretty painful. Spelled out every sentense. Jujst wrong.

I masturbate with a condom on. No biggie there.

I haven't had sex since April. Ms. Arizino, if you're still out there, I'm here. Call me. Please.

I played pool on Tuesday. I lost to an ex-coworker. A female. Horrible.

There were two ex-s at the bar tonight. They both wanted to do me. Yeah, I'm that good.

I haven't had a hair cut in three months. I'm due. But the Renter scalped me last time so I don't know.

What is with LaBron James chewing his nails on the sideline?

I got my underwear ripped off today because I tried to hide "items of the day" from the rest of the bar. It was just the elastic band off the top of the underwear, but still, my underwear is at the bar.

I wish I had more for you but I don't. Actually, I do. Here is Jason Mulgrew's take on the blow job. Seriously, if you haven't checked out his blog, please do so. The fuckers funny.

Jean-Paul Sartre, famed French choreographer and bigot, once wrote that the purpose of gift-giving is to enslave the recipient. That is, to give a gift is to imbue the recipient with a sense of obligation to someday return the favor or otherwise respond in kind. In this way, there is no true sense of generosity; every perceived act of generosity is merely a ruse, an unconscious act of self-interest. We give gifts to others in order, ultimately, to get what we want.

Eight hundred years after Sartre wrote these words, the modern woman has applied this exact sentiment to the act of giving blowjobs.


My father, before he stopped speaking with me over a disputed case of fireworks, taught me three things:

1) Life is short and difficult; cigarettes, they help.

2) Never get a tattoo from a Mexican man, no matter how well he sings (and he will sing well).

3) There is no such thing as a free blowjob.

At the time, I didn’t know what he was talking about. This is probably because I was five years old and didn’t know what a blowjob was. Also, growing up in a segregated Irish-Catholic neighborhood in South Philly, Mexicans were about as real to me as vampires. But as I grew older, I grew to understand and appreciate his advice. And nowhere did it ring as true as in his dire warning about blowjobs.

Subsequently, I have made it my life’s work to study both the psychology and the physiology (or better, physical nature or physicality) of fellatio. I knew from the first that this is the reason that I was put on earth. I will never forget the day I got my first blowjob. It was a Sunday – October 21, 2007. The story of my first is a long and involved one, but basically my buddy Site Guy Brendan and I were hanging around my apartment, each with a terrible hangover. Brendan looked at me and said, “Hey, what do you think about me giving you a beejer?” I said, “Sure, let’s do it.” I was then fellated. So I guess it’s not really that long of a story. Funny, it sounded much longer in my head. Whatever.

Since that fateful day, I have spent a substantial amount of time and effort – not to mention over $300 – researching blowjobs. In sooth, I did not know what I aimed to find when I started my research. But over the days and weeks, I allowed my findings to take me in different directions, to explore new angles, and to cause me to become addicted to masturbating with my knuckle in my ass. To say it has been a roller coaster would be an understatement of the grossest variety.

But now, because my funds are running low and my testes are no longer able to produce semen (instead emitting a shot of hot air from my urethra in lieu of ejaculate), I have decided that my research has come to an end and I am ready to share my findings with the world.


Though it came as a surprise to me, I found quickly that it is common knowledge that a woman will only provide oral sex in offer to profit directly. This profit can take various forms, whether it is a general goal like bettering her position in the relationship, or something more tangible, like getting a new pair of earrings or a new doll or, I don't know, whatever it is women want.

In the course of my research I interviewed numerous women, men and a half-man, half-horse. Though they came from various backgrounds, were of different ages, and had dissimilar occupations, the answer to this question – for females, "Why do you give oral sex?"; for males, "Why do you think women give oral sex?" – was nearly universally the same: to either manipulate or placate.

Because of this, I am able to surmise that, psychologically, blowjobs exist as a tool for advancement, a contrivance to level or otherwise alter the power dynamic in the relationship between the person giving the beejer and the person receiving it. Philosophically, each blowjob represents another deposit in the bank of karma that will be withdrawn at a later time. Pragmatically, it's more akin to “Well, I’m drunk enough and if I suck him off now, I can probably go shopping with Linda tomorrow – so here goes nothing.”

Thus having dispensed with the psychology behind blowjobs, it is time to turn our attention to the physical aspect of beejers.


Before I begin, please note that my findings do not take into account homosexual men who give blowjobs or the occasional straight guy who had a little too much to drink and wound up with his buddy's penis in his mouth (even though we’ve all been there). My intention was to include these groups, but because of an unfortunate event involving a bisexual uncle and something I later learned is called a “gloryhole,” that idea was quickly abandoned.

I have divided women who give blowjobs into five groups based on their approach and execution of fellatio. I would be remiss if I didn't first mention that there is a sixth group that differs so much from the other five that it must be treated and examined in an almost entirely separate discourse.

In my research I discovered, again to my surprise, that there are very few women who enjoy putting a man's penis in their mouth, lolling it around, and bringing it to climax. However, such women do exist – though they may be more difficult to find than a black man who has read The Aeneid in the original. I have named this category of women, for classification purposes, Keepers. Keepers enjoy providing oral sex and will often do so at only the slightest suggestion (i.e. after two glasses of pinot grigio at your cousin's high school graduation barbeque). While Keepers still may provide oral sex only to gain an advantage, the sheer frequency, volume and intensity of the blowjobs make any attempt at manipulation forgivable. Simply put, she works hard for her money. So you'd better treat her right.

And now, the five approaches of women who give blowjobs, with famous examples of each to help further understanding.

Category One: The Penisphobe

For you non-Classicists, phobos is the Greek word for "phobia" and penis is the English word for "penis." Literally, as the name implies, the Penisphobe is afraid of the penis.

The good news is that this fear is not so great that the Penisphobe will not give blowjobs. Rather - and this is the bad news - the fear of the Penisphobe manifests itself in inadequate oral sex sessions which eventually become so much trouble that it's not even worth it; a whole evening at a John Mayer concert for a fifteen second hummer is hardly a fair trade. The blowjobs of the Penisphobe are often short and lack thoroughness and rarely result in the recipient’s climax, unless said recipient has spent all day getting riled up watching women’s volleyball.

The worst part of the penisphobia affliction is that the Penisphobe is often aware of and even celebrates her condition, constantly complaining to her friends and lovers how much she dislikes giving head for myriad reasons ranging from “You pee out of that thing” to “It's just gross.” But again, this does not stop her from giving blowjobs completely. Thus, the Penisphobe approaches oral sex as one might approach paying taxes; unfortunately, she must do it, and do it with some frequency, lest her assets be seized.

There is no single, root cause for penisphobia, but studies suggest that there is a single cure. Fear is an innate emotion that is a direct response to a particular stimulus. The only way to conquer fear is repeated exposure to this stimulus. Therefore, if your partner suffers from penisphobia, you must encourage her to fellate you as often as possible. I have found that bribery often works (i.e. fellatio in exchange for watching “Grey’s Anatomy” as opposed to college basketball) as does verbal encouragement (i.e. “Man, you really know how to handle a bird” or “Holy crap – this feels better than Christmas” and the like). The Penisphobe can, with hard work, be cured.

Famous Examples of Penisphobes: Jennifer Lopez, Renee Zellweger, Jenna Bush, one of the two chicks in Abba

Category Two: The One Who Has Tunnel Vision in Matters of the Penis and Surrounding Area

What many women fail to realize is that there is so much more to the male genital region than just the penis. While the penis is undoubtedly the main attraction, in the act of fellatio the woman should also take into consideration the scrotum, the testes, and the grundle (called by numerous names – taint, chode/choda, gooch – this is the space between the scrotum and the heinie hole). Approaching a blowjob by focusing exclusively on the penis and neglecting these areas is like lighting fireworks with your toes. And yes, I realize that doesn’t make much sense, but I couldn’t come up with anything else.

What many women also fail to realize is that like lovemaking, oral sex requires foreplay. When giving blowjobs, women routinely forsake romance and maximizing pleasure of their man for the sake of efficiency. They adopt a “You’re lucky you’re even getting one in the first place” mentality, put the penis in their mouth, and try to wrap up the deed as quickly as possible. This is equal parts selfish and sad.

(Author’s Note: There is no need to point out the irony of this criticism coming from someone whose art of seduction goes: 1) Start kissing; 2) Count to 100; 3) Stick it in.)

This group (for our purposes, Tunnel Visioners) is the largest of the five groups. One of the reasons why so many women are Tunnel Visioners is that, like their cousins the Starlets (discussed below), they have no idea that they are giving an improper blowjob. In practice, the Tunnel Visioner can often bring a man to climax with frequency. Therefore, they consider themselves good at giving head. But there is a difference between “good” and “good enough”; the Tunnel Visioner is content with the latter while misbelieving she is the former.

A common and easily curable cause for Tunnel Vision is that the woman simply doesn’t know any better. That is, perhaps she was previously involved with a lover of less refined tastes whom she routinely brought to climax, and so she therefore never bothered to explore the Mysteries and Crevasses of the Male Genital Region. If this is the case, a simple suggestion may be all it takes to right the ship and steer a course to happy and successful blowjobs. Many women who suffer from Tunnel Vision go on to have successful blowjob careers and blow lots and lots of dudes – my ex-girlfriend Cheryl comes to mind. Maybe even three dudes in one night in Cancun (Cheryl, I’m looking in your direction). Maybe even two dudes on the plane ride back from Cancun (Cheryl, again…I’ll stop now).

On the other hand, another cause of Tunnel Vision is either laziness or disgust with the other parts of the male genital area. To combat this, I would suggest adopting a strategy similar to dealing with the Penisphobe: encouragement, encouragement, encouragement. Generally speaking, the best recourse to address problems in the bedroom with your partner is open dialogue. Therefore, saying something to the effect of, “You know, I really like the way you give blowjobs, but I’m wondering what it would feel like if you put both my balls in your mouth while wearing a ski mask” might work wonders for someone who is involved with a Tunnel Visioner. And if your partner resists such gentle suggestions because she finds the other areas of the male genital region disgusting, you can always point out to her that since she recently stopped going to the gym, having sex with her doggystyle is getting uncomfortably similar to fucking a peanut butter and jelly sandwich crushed between two watermelons.

Famous Examples of Tunnel Visioners: My ex-girlfriend Cheryl (whore), Salt, Michelle Pfeiffer, Paul Stanley of the rock group Kiss

Category Three: The Semenphobe

Semen, like the Amazon rainforest, MySpace, and Brooklyn Decker, is truly one of greatest miracles of God's creation. In this sticky, faintly bleachy-smelling goo, we have the source of all life on earth. Yes, that glop that you stomp down the drain after a quick jerk when you’re showering at your parents’ house is responsible for nearly everything on the planet (give or take).

Unfortunately, there are a number of women who view semen not as the magic potion that it is, but rather as the scourge of existence – or at least, the scourge of sex. In part, I can understand this; the fear of pregnancy is on the minds of many women, including many of the women in my study (and the half-man, half-horse). But this fear is unfounded in terms of oral sex. Though I only went to medical school for one year, I do remember something about not being able to get pregnant by swallowing sperm. So as an expert on the subject, I can tell you, ladies, with 100% certainty that you have zero chance of getting pregnant by consuming ejaculate at the conclusion of a blowjob. So, cheers (or slainte or skol or salude or whatever you feel comfortable with).

The other reason for semenphobia is the “nastiness” of the semen. I admit, just as many of the man in the study admitted, that there is some truth to the view that semen is gross and a hassle. It doesn’t smell very nice, it’s gooey and clumpy, it stings when it gets in your eyes, and sometimes it gets stuck in your beard and you go to work and your co-worker’s like, “Mulgrew, what’s all over your beard, dude?” and you’re all like, “Um, uh, it’s, um, glaze…yeah, I had a donut this morning” and then he walks away and says “Jesus fucking Christ” under his breath. It can be a real pain to deal with.

But used and manipulated properly, semen can be a wonderful diversion in the bedroom. The cure for semenphobia, like the other fear-based techniques we’ve discussed, is exposure to the source of the fear. But note: this exposure should be taken slowly and in small increments, lest the damage to the Semenphobe be irreparable. It is not advisable to treat the Semenphobe with a “sink-or-swim” approach. Too much semen too quickly may result in you spending the rest of your relationship spooging on your sheets and/or floor. Treat the Semenphobe as you would someone who dislikes hot foods but are trying to turn on to Tabasco sauce – a little bit at first, for the thrill; a little bit more later, for the taste; and then finally a whole crapload, because it’s badass and it makes your eyes water.

(But of course we’re talking about semen, not hot sauce. Just wanted to make that clear.)

Famous Examples: Amy Winehouse, Francois Metterand, George Michael, Pepa

Category Four: The Starlet

Undoubtedly, drama is inherent in sex. This drama arises from the shared vulnerability at the very core of sex; two people, stripping themselves of both their clothes and their inhibitions, navigating together through the musty realm of lovemaking, towing the line between intimacy and vulgarity. Even the most seemingly meaningless sexual encounters are ripe with drama (i.e. “What’s his name again?” or “I hope she’s on the pill” or “This one time doesn’t make me gay, but the second one in the morning might”, etc.).

But this drama, based as it is in vulnerability, must be handled delicately. This is where the Starlet errs.

The Starlet approaches each blowjob as if she were starring in her very own pornographic movie. At face value this sounds wonderful (really, really wonderful), but the Starlet lacks the talent and tools to live up to the hype she’s creating while fellating.

The Starlet is about style, not substance. She doesn’t understand that all the moans, dirty talk, and other flashy elements do not a good blowjob make. Her frequent and unabashed use of words like “cock” and “cum” and, in my case, “I don’t know why I feel so drunk and tired,” are often employed to mask a mediocre blowjob.

The best blowjob I received in the course of my research came from a girl who didn’t say a word. She was a like a ninja of fellatio, stunning me with a rapid succession of moves and maneuvers, making me feel alternatively euphoric and frightened. And before I could even get my bearings, it was all over. I remember it starting, I remember feeling like I was dying, and then I remember laying in my bed, a tear in my eye and a bag of potato chips in my hand. At the other end of the spectrum, I received a blowjob from a woman who, immediately prior to commencing her penile assault, said, “Jason Mulgrew, get ready for the best blowjob of your life!” While it was not nearly the best blowjob of my life, it was certainly unforgettable; she treated my penis like a piece of chum. I will carry those teeth marks with me for some time. (In these examples, the former was a Keeper, the latter, a Starlet.)

Starlets are difficult to cure. Because they invest so much and take such pride in their drama, they are often highly sensitive to suggestions on how to improve their performance. There is nothing worse than a starlet with a shattered sense of self-confidence; say the wrong thing and you will be punished with a lifetime of reassuring her that yes, she’s doing a great job and yes, of course you like it when she starts speaking in that made up language that you guess is supposed to sound like French or turn you on or something.

The best way to cure a Starlet is to rise to the occasion and become a Starlet yourself. Suggest that you dabble in role-playing; you play the part of the guy getting head and she the part of the girl who just shuts up for two goddamn minutes and gives a decent blowjob for once. If you need something a little more subtle, maybe she can be the deaf-mute girl and you her sign language teacher. Or perhaps she can be a mime and you, I don’t know, a guy who likes to get blowjobs from mimes. The possibilities are only limited by your imagination.

Famous Examples: Jessica Alba, Sarah Silverman, Representative Barney Frank (D-MA), that girl who nearly bit my penis off.

Category Five: The Abstainer

This is the most confounding group of all. These women simply do not give blowjobs. They are not to be trifled with and, if the laws of your state allow, should be thrown into the nearest river or body of water.

This is all there is to say about Abstainers.

Famous Examples: Jennifer Love Hewitt. What a cold, cold bitch. That’s the last time I take her to a wedding.


Sex, as in vaginal intercourse, is undoubtedly pleasurable, but its primary purpose is procreation. We have intercourse, basically speaking, to create. However, oral sex, because it cannot result in procreation, in its nascent and purest form is strictly about the giving and receiving of pleasure. Unfortunately, throughout the course of the centuries, due to the rise of the diamond trade, the existence of Prada bags, and the release of Complete Series of “Sex in the City” on DVD, the blowjob has degenerated from its venerable position as fun and fundamental part of sex to instrument for manipulation and advancement.

But all is not hopeless. The Prophet sayeth, “It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give when unasked.” Through positive reinforcement, sensitivity, and not a small amount of white wine and/or cosmopolitans, it is possible to affect a fundamental shift in the nature of the blowjob, both psychologically and physically. But this change will not come without action, a proactive approach to fellatio. And so I ask you, brothers and sisters, to act. There is no reason that men and women can not work together to maximize the pleasure of the blowjob for both parties, to get the blowjob back to its roots: something that is bestowed by a woman (or man) onto a man for the sake of pleasure, pure and simple.

Monday, November 05, 2007

I Peed Myself Again

This weekend, uh, man, sumptin else. I had off from work on Friday and washed and waxed the Jeep for the last time before winter. But other than that, I don’t know what I did. I think I posted a couple of times on this here blog (although I have no idea what it was anymore), beat the Renter in six straight games of pool till she gave up, looked at the leaves in my yard that need to be raked (looked at, didn’t touch them), went out with the old roommate on Saturday night, and, well, beat off a couple times. Which reminds me of one of the posts from over the weekend, the one with the email from the FA’s wife’s cousin. Between her profanity filled email and hot ass slutty Halloween pictures, well, let’s just say it worked, un, several times. (And no, K, I didn’t beat off to your pictures, but it sounds funny if I put it on the blog. Call me if you want to shave our genitals together. We can have a genital shaving party with wine and cheese. Mine needs it pretty bad, it’s like a fucking jungle down there.)

On a totally unrelated topic...

If there’s a girl that you’d like to screw but she definitely wouldn’t screw you, say this in front of a bunch of her friends:

“So, do you have a boyfriend now or can we start hooking up again? We had a good run at it a couple months back.”

Seriously, I have the best pick-up lines ever. Talking about sex as “a good run at it” really turns the women on, especially if you’ve never done it with her, and it has to be in front of her friends. Priceless.

Another priceless moment: waking up on Monday wearing a different pair of shorts than you remember going to bed in. I guess I peed my pants Sunday night. There’s nothing sexier than a tall brown haired blue eyed man who has peed his pants. Yes ladies, I’m single. Send your love letters and boob photos to me soon; you never know when I might be taken off the market. Boob and ass photos ‘cause you know I love a nice ass.

And fuck, I’m a terrible liar; I did get a little randy with those Halloween pictures.

Since I might have gotten the FA in trouble for sending me the pictures (K’s Myspace page is set to private), I figured I’d throw a prop out there for my good buddy. Today he sent me a chart showing the annualized rate of return for my Roth IRA. Here are the results:

One year: 22.51%
Two years: 16.49%
Three years: 16.73%
Since inception: 15.13%

In comparison, the S&P 500’s annualized rate of return for that time span is 12.12%. Now I can’t give him all the props since I picked some of the mutual funds but the ones I picked were out of a selection he sent me. Either way it’s worked well. Thanks FA.

And because I’m really not that nice of a guy… the FA masturbates while sitting on the toilet. I asked him why he doesn’t do it over the sink so he can see his manliness in the mirror while he’s working it. The FA replied that he couldn’t reach that high. And that he doesn’t have that much in the manliness category. I feel for you, buddy.

Snoop out in Cali is laughing his ass off right now.

The New Porn

Remember the porn DVD I won last week? Yeah, well it has midgets on it. It has a midget guy who does normal women and a midget chick who does normal guys. The midget chick scenes are kinda gross because she looks like someone who isn’t old enough to be having sex. The midget guy scenes are actually kind of comical.

But there was one scene, without midgets, that had three guys and one girl. Oh did she take the pounding. The nasty part of that one was one guy shot his load on her ass and the next guy slapped her ass while she was riding him getting the other guy’s spunk all over his hand. I’m sorry but that’s just gross. I know we all expect women to swallow that shit but I don’t like it on my hand, and that’s my jiz, not someone else’s. Having someone else’s sperm on my hand, uh, I’d probably puke. The guy in the porn must have felt the same way as you could see him wiping it off on her leg. Just nasty.

Saturday, November 03, 2007


You would think being featured in a post on this blog would be something special, something to take pride in. Well, remember that "Hottie of the Day" post? Yeah, I guess she didn't see it the same way.




My response: it really isn't that small...

Friday, November 02, 2007

Yet Another Reason

Yet another reason why I need to start watching more tennis.

Women Drivers

My mom backed into the Jeep yesterday. But that's ok because "there wasn't any damage." That's what she said. It was dark out. The bumper's pushed back a half inch. Have I ever mentioned that I'm totally anal about my Jeep??!! Fuck.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Lingerie Girl

Now that baseball is over there isn’t shit on TV. Sure, the NBA season started but who wants to watch multi-millionaires run up and down the court and throw punches like girls when they get into an altercation (did you see Carmelo last year?). Yeah, you gansta mother fuckers.

Wednesday (Halloween) was brutal at the bar. It was either Halloween H2O or a 20 point NBA blowout on TV. Painful. They were having pool leagues in back so that was out of the question. I asked the Renter if she wanted to go to the old Sunday Night Pool bar (why I feel like capitalizing that I don’t know) and she said yes. Ran home, grabbed the Wal-Mart pool sticks and off we went.

The bar wasn’t busy at all but there was something amiss. As soon as I walked in I saw it: a nice tight, perky ass in some lace underwear. I almost tripped over a bar stool. And then I remembered, they have lingerie nights at the bar. Dude, this chick was smokin’ hot, nice ass, tits out to here, and best of all, friendly as hell. The Renter and I made our way to the pool tables in back and the lingerie girl was on us like a black guy on one of the many fat white chicks I’ve dated (oh, there’s been a few, white chicks that is). She was trying to sell us raffle tickets or something, I’m not sure, I was five pitchers in at that point. Somehow I ended up with a raffle ticket and won a porn DVD that had a bunch of women with fake tits and nipples pointed in odd directions on the cover. Yeah, I’ll still watch it, might have to do it cross-eyed or something. Since I was pretty much beered out I had the Renter get me a rum and coke. Yippie-kay-yah mother fucker, $1 drink special!!! Needless to say I walked out of the bar without a dollar on me. And with a huge bonar. That chick was hot.

I’ll get pictures next time. I know you all like titties as much as I do.

(I must admit I have to be careful in those situations. Being the hornball that I am, combined with being perpetually loaded, I have to watch what I say. Usually in those situations I clam up not wanting to offend anyone. If I try to think of something funny to say it always comes out wrong. For example, if I tried to pay her a compliment like “You look nice in that outfit” it will come out like “Would you blow me in the bathroom for $20? No, how about $30?” Yeah, better off keeping my mouth shut. I told you I have a way with women.)

Can You Do Me a Favor?

Twice this week I’ve done favors for friends and been burned. I’m a sucker for helping people out. If you ask me for something you’re more than likely going to get it. Monday night the old roommate came up to me and said he left his wallet at work. No problem, I had a little bit of cash on me. But then when I went up to pay I gave the bartender $5 since I was working the pools and drinking for free and $12 for the old roommate’s $10 bar tab. “You only gave him $17!” The bartender explained to him the situation with the pools and the roommate balked. “Fuck that, I’m only paying you $10.” Yeah? Huh, last time I lend you money. What, your cheap ass wasn’t going to tip the bartender? (I can say this all because the old roommate doesn’t come to this site and probably doesn’t know what a blog is. He’s more into

The second instance actually happened a month ago but just reared its head this week. I had received a 30% off coupon at Kohl’s and, being a nice guy, I asked the Renter if she needed anything from there. Well, she managed to rack up $75 worth of underwear (like she doesn’t have enough already) (and those were just bottoms), a couple bras and some sweaters for a grand total of $206 after the 30% discount. The bill came and it’s due on Monday. Yesterday I asked her about paying for it. “Ok, so what do you want, rent or the Kohl’s bill?” Huh? “Yeah, I don’t have enough to pay you for both.” Being an accountant I’m just amazed by this. But then again I’m not normal. I have all my expenses mapped out by pay period to December 2010. Yeah, not normal. But if you knew this was coming due and you knew that you needed a roof over your head you’d think you’d have the cash on hand. Hey, I just shelled out $126 for the water bill and $70 for the electric and I’m never home (and rarely shower). But then again she does drive my drunk ass around a lot, I’ll give her that.

I Try, People

I’ve been on this kick where I’ve been trying to put out (he, he, put out) (wait, that was pretty gay) five posts a week, one for every week day. Coming from me that’s a lot of posts. I’m not a writer, I’m really not that funny, I do a lot of stupid shit but coming up with five good posts a week, uh, its tough man. So if some of the past posts have been lame, I apologize. My goal is to knock your socks off (or your panties) every time you click on over.

Today I actually had a thought for a post, not just a retelling of how I tripped on my penis walking up the steps or got my finger stuck in one of those bathroom condom machines. I haven’t really put any serious thought into it yet but I’ve got a start on it, figured I’d just write it on the fly. So here it goes.

Why the gym is better than working out at home.

As you know I’ve joined the gym again. I’ve been going during my lunch hour on a regular basis for the past week and a half. And let me tell you, I’m a pretty happy camper.

1. It gets me out of the office for an hour. For the last six months I’ve been working through lunch and the one hour breather breaks up the day pretty well.

2. There are women at the gym; hot, young women bending over on the stair masters showing their “shoot your load here” tattoos. And of course they have the short shorts and tight shirts that leave little to the imagination. It’s a thing of beauty.

3. The 40-yr-old woman at the gym is looking nice. Unfortunately she’s going to Mexico with some dude so I guess she’s kinda off limits right now. Don’t worry, I’ll tap that at some point.

4. There’s nothing like doing bench presses on an actual gym bench. The bench that I have at home is one of those that has the back that can be raised at different angles. This tends to lead to a little bit of flexing and a general feeling of instability. I was quite pleased with the weight I could do on the gym bench.

5. I get to be Brian again. The second day back the old lawyer was in the gym. I walked up to him and he jumped back, “Brian, good to have you back!” Later I could hear him yelling down the hall, “Hey, did you see that Brian’s back?!” Look out ladies, Big Bad Brian’s back in the house.

6. I’m not really self-conscious about my body but I’ll admit I’m a bit vain. The gym has mirrors, many mirrors. I love wearing tank tops to the gym and checking myself out in the mirror. Not that I’m huge huge but there aren’t too many other people at the gym who are bigger than I am. And there’s nothing like posing in the mirror and checking out striations in your shoulders and a nice clean line where your shoulders meet your triceps. Yeah, just a bit vain.

7. Did I mention all the hot chicks?

8. The vast number of machines and equipment at the gym is a hell of a lot more useful than any home gym. Back exercises at home consisted of hanging exercises with only one weight available, 230 lbs. At the gym you can get on a machine and do pull downs with any weight you want. Instead of doing four pull-ups on your sixth set you can set the weight at 190 and do eight.

9. The gym has dumbbells up to 120 lbs. Try hauling one of those into your basement.

10. You can use the mirrors to check out the hot chicks. Instead of making direct eye contact you can position yourself to get a good view in the reflection of a mirror. Not that I’d ever purposefully do that of course.

So yeah, the gym’s going well. As an added bonus I can get up to the bar earlier and get home earlier for a good night’s sleep – only to be woken up by the Renter watching TV at 2:00 in the morning.