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.
Friday, August 31, 2007
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.
Supposedly he was racing a Dodge Viper. I guess he had the engine stoked out to 1,000 hp. Damn.
Workout
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.
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.
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.
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
Posting
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.
One of my biggest pet peaves.
Weekends
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.
No, really, I love you, please come back. To my back door. Ring the doorbell.
Excel
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...
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 Bankrate.com) 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.
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.
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.
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?)
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
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.
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:
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.
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 http://drdrunkendebauchery.blogspot.com (just happened to stumble across her blog):
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:
“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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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