I shall return tomorrow, however, thoroughly hung-over and equipped with many pictures and tales of daring misadventures.
If you're drinking tonight, have a shot of jack for me.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Nothing Today
Apparently, just because they pay me a salary my office thinks this gives them license to "boss me around." Losers. Between that, buying liquor, picking up women and wreaking havoc on Lower Manhattan, there's no time for blogging today.
I shall return tomorrow, however, thoroughly hung-over and equipped with many pictures and tales of daring misadventures.
If you're drinking tonight, have a shot of jack for me.
I shall return tomorrow, however, thoroughly hung-over and equipped with many pictures and tales of daring misadventures.
If you're drinking tonight, have a shot of jack for me.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Ehren: Fascist Dictator Of Lunch Breaks
While I appreciate the saying “Seize the Day,” I feel that the phrase doesn’t quite capture my true level of intensity when it comes to getting shit done. I don’t so much "seize" it as much as I "drug it, bind it, throw it in my trunk, drive it out to the desert, penetrate it’s every orifice in ways that would violate all decency or feelings of self-worth, and leave it sobbing and broken on the side of interstate 50."
I’m not like this all the time—just when I’ve got something to do. Which is why I put out on the first date. Or at least rub one out in her soup when she goes to check her make-up.
Today’s lunch break was a good example of my “Rape the Moment” philosophy. Generally, I spend my lunch periods napping on the couch in the break room, or violating all laws of decency (and sexual harassment) joking with co-workers. Of course, there was that one super-productive day when I multitasked and did both. Let’s just say it involved a wet-dream in the break room.
Today, however, my eyes were on a prize far-greater than the mere dry-humping of a $3000 couch. Tomorrow night is my company’s Christmas party and, seeing as I make up a good portion of the company’s hardest-drinking department, the rumors were thick in the air. Let’s put it this way: we’re pre-gaming an open-bar event. That should give you an idea of the levels of depravity I fully expect to surpass tomorrow evening. Word is that we also have a VIP table at a club for afterwards.
I believe that anything worth doing is worth doing in style. And as I anticipate being fired first thing the next morning, really the only thing to do was look sharp as I destroyed my career binging on off-color humor, women, and Jack Daniels. It was with that in mind that I decided to go clothes shopping.
1:35: Get up from my desk and recruit two co-workers/fashion advisors. I’ve learned the hard way that I desperately require a babysitter when shopping. Shopping alone has led to such questionable decisions as FUBU shirts, blue velvet pants, and prescription welder’s goggles.
1:40: Arrive at a men’s clothing store that sports a huge sign reading “Liquidation Sale! Everything must go!” I’m Jewish. Lay off me.
1:41: I’m the only white man in the store. I resist the urge to demand the clerk “dress me like Jay Z's drug-dealer.”
1:43: I find a suit that looks pimptastic. My advisors let me know I’m not hallucinating.
1:44: The salesman fits me for the pants. I enjoy being felt up a little more than is appropriate. Such is the price when I skip my afternoon masturbation session.
1:50: I leave the store with a receipt for a brand new suit in my pocket and turn my attention to my date situation. The alternative is being molested by drunk women from sales as per last year. This is far less fun than it sounds, as the phrase “more loquacious than a cattle auctioneer and roughly as feminine” is shockingly accurate. It’s your word of the day, fuckers. Look it up.
1:52: I have successfully uninvited a girl I know is notoriously antisocial and now have plans with a hot Italian girl. I am mother-fucking Benito Mussolini: partly because of my ability to get shit done but mostly because of my sinister plot to defile and enslave the Italian people...or at least their women, anyway.
To put my lunchtime of kicking-ass into perspective, while I was out plotting an evening to set the progress of women back 50 years, my co-worker stood on line at a deli and ordered a sandwich. I won’t say whose time was more productive, but unless his sandwich had an ass that was so large, round and perfect that it made smaller asses orbit it, I’m guessing it was me.
“How was your lunch?” a co-worker asked, as I assumed my on-going project of turning a leather couch into a biological disaster.
“It was great!” I responded. “I bought a suit and got a date.”
“Sounds productive.”
“Yeah. It really makes me think of all the similarities: both are dark, on sale, and of course, I hope to be inside each of them for a generous portion of the night.”
I’m not like this all the time—just when I’ve got something to do. Which is why I put out on the first date. Or at least rub one out in her soup when she goes to check her make-up.
Today’s lunch break was a good example of my “Rape the Moment” philosophy. Generally, I spend my lunch periods napping on the couch in the break room, or violating all laws of decency (and sexual harassment) joking with co-workers. Of course, there was that one super-productive day when I multitasked and did both. Let’s just say it involved a wet-dream in the break room.
Today, however, my eyes were on a prize far-greater than the mere dry-humping of a $3000 couch. Tomorrow night is my company’s Christmas party and, seeing as I make up a good portion of the company’s hardest-drinking department, the rumors were thick in the air. Let’s put it this way: we’re pre-gaming an open-bar event. That should give you an idea of the levels of depravity I fully expect to surpass tomorrow evening. Word is that we also have a VIP table at a club for afterwards.
I believe that anything worth doing is worth doing in style. And as I anticipate being fired first thing the next morning, really the only thing to do was look sharp as I destroyed my career binging on off-color humor, women, and Jack Daniels. It was with that in mind that I decided to go clothes shopping.
1:35: Get up from my desk and recruit two co-workers/fashion advisors. I’ve learned the hard way that I desperately require a babysitter when shopping. Shopping alone has led to such questionable decisions as FUBU shirts, blue velvet pants, and prescription welder’s goggles.
1:40: Arrive at a men’s clothing store that sports a huge sign reading “Liquidation Sale! Everything must go!” I’m Jewish. Lay off me.
1:41: I’m the only white man in the store. I resist the urge to demand the clerk “dress me like Jay Z's drug-dealer.”
1:43: I find a suit that looks pimptastic. My advisors let me know I’m not hallucinating.
1:44: The salesman fits me for the pants. I enjoy being felt up a little more than is appropriate. Such is the price when I skip my afternoon masturbation session.
1:50: I leave the store with a receipt for a brand new suit in my pocket and turn my attention to my date situation. The alternative is being molested by drunk women from sales as per last year. This is far less fun than it sounds, as the phrase “more loquacious than a cattle auctioneer and roughly as feminine” is shockingly accurate. It’s your word of the day, fuckers. Look it up.
1:52: I have successfully uninvited a girl I know is notoriously antisocial and now have plans with a hot Italian girl. I am mother-fucking Benito Mussolini: partly because of my ability to get shit done but mostly because of my sinister plot to defile and enslave the Italian people...or at least their women, anyway.
To put my lunchtime of kicking-ass into perspective, while I was out plotting an evening to set the progress of women back 50 years, my co-worker stood on line at a deli and ordered a sandwich. I won’t say whose time was more productive, but unless his sandwich had an ass that was so large, round and perfect that it made smaller asses orbit it, I’m guessing it was me.
“How was your lunch?” a co-worker asked, as I assumed my on-going project of turning a leather couch into a biological disaster.
“It was great!” I responded. “I bought a suit and got a date.”
“Sounds productive.”
“Yeah. It really makes me think of all the similarities: both are dark, on sale, and of course, I hope to be inside each of them for a generous portion of the night.”
Monday, December 04, 2006
Everyone In My County Has Brain Damage
I may be just an awkward white kid from the suburbs, but at least I have one saving grace: I KNOW that I am. I wouldn’t bother pretending that I’m a thug, or a club rat, or a prostitute/hotel heiress. What you see is what you get. It’s one of those qualities about myself I never really admired until recently.
Saturday was my friend’s birthday, and so, with expectations of drunken debauchery in my head, I drove into the bar area of my little suburban neighborhood. I must have been out of my fucking mind. Because apparently, I’m the only person in the county who realizes how fucking lame my county is.
As I pulled into a parking place, four girls stumbled across the road in front of me. The temperature was, conservatively, 34 degrees. Between, they had enough fabric to make one shirt that would struggle to conceal the torso of one of those starving african kids they show in the commercials. Which was ironic, because no one could ever have thought for a moment these girls were in danger of starving to death. Rather, they looked as if they had been force-fed butter, bacon, and congealed hog-fat around the clock for the last 20 years or so.
Really, the only hint I had that the beings weaving their unsteady way across the double yellow line in front of me actually had overies was the shitty make up that slathered across their faces. One of the girls had a belly shirt that was desperately fighting a losing battle with the enormous gut that was making a bid at consuming her blouse and too-tight pants leather pants. Seriously, if the lighting had been better, I guarantee I could have seen an outline of every wrinkle of her bloated vagina. It looked like Jaba the Hutt had gotten a make-over from a blind, transvestite prostitute.
Desperately trying to put the walking horror show from my mind, I headed off to the bar to meet my friends. Now, there’s a clear delineation, in my mind, between bars and clubs. Bars are places you go to get shit-faced on cheap beer and/or whiskey. Clubs are places you go if you’re into sipping champagne, looking bored, and wearing body glitter. I arrived at the agreed upon meeting point that was, in my mind, a bar. Why? BECAUSE IT’S IN THE MIDDLE OF ROCKLAND FUCKING COUNTY. The closest thing approaching a “scene” in 20 square miles was the 11th graders sipping stolen beer in their mom’s basement. That’s it. End of fucking list.
When I arrived there, however, there were two new features: velvet ropes and line outside. Never seriously entertaining for a moment that people would bother standing on line to get into a bar in the home of the world’s lamest night life, I proceeded to simply walk into the place—only to be stopped by a bouncer.
“You can’t come in.” he said.
“Huh?” I asked intelligently.
“Back of the line.”
It was only then that I turned my attention to the people waiting for admittance: hair-gel. Sunglasses. Leopard print pants.
“Wait, you people are actually waiting in line for a bar? You do realize that this is Rockland County, right?”
“Dude. Maxim is holding a party in there. It’s going to be rad.”
“And you’re hoping to over-power one of the maxim girls with your cologne? Jesus, did you use the whole bottle?”
“Man, whatever. This party’s going to be off the hizzle.”
That’s when I knew I had to leave. Because I didn't want to have to shatter his skull against the pavement. If the kid in front of me were any paler, he would have been in imminent danger of being mistaken for a snowman--provided snow men wear armani shirts open at the chest and bathe in Aqua Velva. Besides, I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was roughly as black and gangsta as Rick Moranis…of course, that was before the escalade piloted by a 23 year-old white kid drove by, blasting rap.
It’s then that I realized: apparently, I was the only person in town that night who didn’t think he was something he wasn’t. I knew I wasn’t a hot model. I knew I wasn’t black. Most importantly, I knew that I was in Rockland fuck County. And until the rest of you fat, brain-damaged white kids figure that out, I’m through with the night life.
Saturday was my friend’s birthday, and so, with expectations of drunken debauchery in my head, I drove into the bar area of my little suburban neighborhood. I must have been out of my fucking mind. Because apparently, I’m the only person in the county who realizes how fucking lame my county is.
As I pulled into a parking place, four girls stumbled across the road in front of me. The temperature was, conservatively, 34 degrees. Between, they had enough fabric to make one shirt that would struggle to conceal the torso of one of those starving african kids they show in the commercials. Which was ironic, because no one could ever have thought for a moment these girls were in danger of starving to death. Rather, they looked as if they had been force-fed butter, bacon, and congealed hog-fat around the clock for the last 20 years or so.
Really, the only hint I had that the beings weaving their unsteady way across the double yellow line in front of me actually had overies was the shitty make up that slathered across their faces. One of the girls had a belly shirt that was desperately fighting a losing battle with the enormous gut that was making a bid at consuming her blouse and too-tight pants leather pants. Seriously, if the lighting had been better, I guarantee I could have seen an outline of every wrinkle of her bloated vagina. It looked like Jaba the Hutt had gotten a make-over from a blind, transvestite prostitute.
Desperately trying to put the walking horror show from my mind, I headed off to the bar to meet my friends. Now, there’s a clear delineation, in my mind, between bars and clubs. Bars are places you go to get shit-faced on cheap beer and/or whiskey. Clubs are places you go if you’re into sipping champagne, looking bored, and wearing body glitter. I arrived at the agreed upon meeting point that was, in my mind, a bar. Why? BECAUSE IT’S IN THE MIDDLE OF ROCKLAND FUCKING COUNTY. The closest thing approaching a “scene” in 20 square miles was the 11th graders sipping stolen beer in their mom’s basement. That’s it. End of fucking list.
When I arrived there, however, there were two new features: velvet ropes and line outside. Never seriously entertaining for a moment that people would bother standing on line to get into a bar in the home of the world’s lamest night life, I proceeded to simply walk into the place—only to be stopped by a bouncer.
“You can’t come in.” he said.
“Huh?” I asked intelligently.
“Back of the line.”
It was only then that I turned my attention to the people waiting for admittance: hair-gel. Sunglasses. Leopard print pants.
“Wait, you people are actually waiting in line for a bar? You do realize that this is Rockland County, right?”
“Dude. Maxim is holding a party in there. It’s going to be rad.”
“And you’re hoping to over-power one of the maxim girls with your cologne? Jesus, did you use the whole bottle?”
“Man, whatever. This party’s going to be off the hizzle.”
That’s when I knew I had to leave. Because I didn't want to have to shatter his skull against the pavement. If the kid in front of me were any paler, he would have been in imminent danger of being mistaken for a snowman--provided snow men wear armani shirts open at the chest and bathe in Aqua Velva. Besides, I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was roughly as black and gangsta as Rick Moranis…of course, that was before the escalade piloted by a 23 year-old white kid drove by, blasting rap.
It’s then that I realized: apparently, I was the only person in town that night who didn’t think he was something he wasn’t. I knew I wasn’t a hot model. I knew I wasn’t black. Most importantly, I knew that I was in Rockland fuck County. And until the rest of you fat, brain-damaged white kids figure that out, I’m through with the night life.
Friday, December 01, 2006
The "Training" Of A Girl
Every once in a while you come across an experience that your mind simply refuses to accept. For example, every time I see an advertisement for a movie starring Paris Hilton. It’s like you’re watching it, but you can’t believe that someone would be dumb enough to think “Hey, this is a really good idea.”
Such was an experience I had a few months with a girl. Let me warn you: what you’re about to read is not for the weak stomached. I’ve been on dates with some fucked-up women before, but this tale takes the cake, platter and table-cloth of bad judgment. And this is from someone who’s been on a first date where a girl prattled on about her abortion party.
Now, the female in question and I had hooked up a few times—nothing too serious, but enough that she felt comfortable enough to drunk dial me at odd times and send me long, rambling emails. It was sweet. However, what was rapidly becoming clear was that she was interested in something beyond purely physical.
I respect that. But at the same time, I didn’t see her frequently enough that I saw any real harm in letting her know that the feelings weren’t completely mutual. Three hook-ups in a year do not qualify as a relationship.
I was at work one day when I got a phone call from Ms. I-Want-To-Date-You. She didn’t have anything approaching a steady job, so I was used to phone calls at strange hours. What I wasn’t prepared for was the story she launched into.
It seems that the night before she had attended a party. After walking around for a while and downing an obscene amount of Malibu, she began flirting with a guy she met. She was a fairly attractive girl with an insatiable sex-drive so as the cocoanut rum worked its magic on her insides, she decided to take matters in to her own hands as it were. She promptly led the guy upstairs to an unused room, stripped him down, and rode him like a theme-park ride.
None of this was especially disturbing to me: she and I weren’t exclusive by any means. I saw no moral reason for her not to have fun. But here’s where the story takes a turn.
Turns out that our hero, in her rum-addled state, had forgotten she’d invited a guy to the party as her date. Her date arrived only to find that she is suspiciously missing in action. By which I mean “being fucked like the South fucked black people.” At long last, someone mentions to our poor boy that they saw his date heading upstairs not too long ago.
Fortunately (or un depending on your point of view) Boy Number One had just finished up defiling the young lady in ways that would make a Bangkok hooker blush, and passed Boy Number Two on the stairs. Boy Number Two opens to the door to find our girl, nude, flushed, and spread eagle on the bed from an invasion that had made the Crusades seem soft and romantic.
“Wow!” he said. “Have you been waiting for me?”
“What did you do?” I asked. At this point I was completely engaged in the story.
“Well,” she answered. “I kinda felt bad. I mean I HAD invited him…and it seemed rude to have sex with someone else while on a date with him.”
“So?” I asked.
“So I fucked him, too.”
I let that soak in for a moment. “So you had sex with two different guys inside of 40 minutes?”
“Yeah. Am I a bad person?”
“Did either of them know?”
“Well, Guy Number Two MUST have known. I mean, neither one of them used protection.”
My stomach did a long, slow summersault and clenched like the asshole of a felon his first night in prison. I felt nauseous.
Now, I’m not one to throw a moral hissy-fit regarding anyone’s sexual behavior. Different people like different shit, and Lord knows I’ve done my share of weird things, some of which I’m not particularly proud of. But it is simply beyond my comprehension how anyone, ANYONE could think that this was a good story to tell to a dude you wanted to date. I mean, short of coming clean about an interest incestuous necrophilia, that’s probably the worst choice ever made. This makes Paul McCartney’s prenupt-less marriage look like a brilliant stroke of strategic planning.
As I struggled to keep my breakfast down, I realized she was still speaking.
“So,” she asked. “When will I see you again?”
“After you’ve been tested.”
Click.
Such was an experience I had a few months with a girl. Let me warn you: what you’re about to read is not for the weak stomached. I’ve been on dates with some fucked-up women before, but this tale takes the cake, platter and table-cloth of bad judgment. And this is from someone who’s been on a first date where a girl prattled on about her abortion party.
Now, the female in question and I had hooked up a few times—nothing too serious, but enough that she felt comfortable enough to drunk dial me at odd times and send me long, rambling emails. It was sweet. However, what was rapidly becoming clear was that she was interested in something beyond purely physical.
I respect that. But at the same time, I didn’t see her frequently enough that I saw any real harm in letting her know that the feelings weren’t completely mutual. Three hook-ups in a year do not qualify as a relationship.
I was at work one day when I got a phone call from Ms. I-Want-To-Date-You. She didn’t have anything approaching a steady job, so I was used to phone calls at strange hours. What I wasn’t prepared for was the story she launched into.
It seems that the night before she had attended a party. After walking around for a while and downing an obscene amount of Malibu, she began flirting with a guy she met. She was a fairly attractive girl with an insatiable sex-drive so as the cocoanut rum worked its magic on her insides, she decided to take matters in to her own hands as it were. She promptly led the guy upstairs to an unused room, stripped him down, and rode him like a theme-park ride.
None of this was especially disturbing to me: she and I weren’t exclusive by any means. I saw no moral reason for her not to have fun. But here’s where the story takes a turn.
Turns out that our hero, in her rum-addled state, had forgotten she’d invited a guy to the party as her date. Her date arrived only to find that she is suspiciously missing in action. By which I mean “being fucked like the South fucked black people.” At long last, someone mentions to our poor boy that they saw his date heading upstairs not too long ago.
Fortunately (or un depending on your point of view) Boy Number One had just finished up defiling the young lady in ways that would make a Bangkok hooker blush, and passed Boy Number Two on the stairs. Boy Number Two opens to the door to find our girl, nude, flushed, and spread eagle on the bed from an invasion that had made the Crusades seem soft and romantic.
“Wow!” he said. “Have you been waiting for me?”
“What did you do?” I asked. At this point I was completely engaged in the story.
“Well,” she answered. “I kinda felt bad. I mean I HAD invited him…and it seemed rude to have sex with someone else while on a date with him.”
“So?” I asked.
“So I fucked him, too.”
I let that soak in for a moment. “So you had sex with two different guys inside of 40 minutes?”
“Yeah. Am I a bad person?”
“Did either of them know?”
“Well, Guy Number Two MUST have known. I mean, neither one of them used protection.”
My stomach did a long, slow summersault and clenched like the asshole of a felon his first night in prison. I felt nauseous.
Now, I’m not one to throw a moral hissy-fit regarding anyone’s sexual behavior. Different people like different shit, and Lord knows I’ve done my share of weird things, some of which I’m not particularly proud of. But it is simply beyond my comprehension how anyone, ANYONE could think that this was a good story to tell to a dude you wanted to date. I mean, short of coming clean about an interest incestuous necrophilia, that’s probably the worst choice ever made. This makes Paul McCartney’s prenupt-less marriage look like a brilliant stroke of strategic planning.
As I struggled to keep my breakfast down, I realized she was still speaking.
“So,” she asked. “When will I see you again?”
“After you’ve been tested.”
Click.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
A Communist Christmas
Sometimes I just have a way with words. Not necessarily a good way. But a way none-the-less. For example, a few weeks ago a girl asked me when the last time I had sex was. Without blinking I replied, “Wait—consensual, or non? Because I may have never had consensual sex in my life.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, more than a little shocked.
“All my sex is nonconsensual. Even masturbation. Just last night I molested myself. I said I wasn’t in the mood, but deep down, I knew I wanted it.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Maybe I should buy my cock a rape-whistle.”
On that note, with the holidays fast approaching, I was thinking of potential gifts to buy for people. Maybe that’s what I should buy for the various women in my life. Nothing says “I love you” like a rape-whistle. It’s thoughtful, practical, and the over-powering smell of their own fear will remind them of me.
Then again, I have been wrong before. I learned some valuable lessons about giving pepper-spray to women last year.
“What do you mean?” she asked, more than a little shocked.
“All my sex is nonconsensual. Even masturbation. Just last night I molested myself. I said I wasn’t in the mood, but deep down, I knew I wanted it.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Maybe I should buy my cock a rape-whistle.”
On that note, with the holidays fast approaching, I was thinking of potential gifts to buy for people. Maybe that’s what I should buy for the various women in my life. Nothing says “I love you” like a rape-whistle. It’s thoughtful, practical, and the over-powering smell of their own fear will remind them of me.
Then again, I have been wrong before. I learned some valuable lessons about giving pepper-spray to women last year.
- One squirt does not send my refried beans “South of The Boarder.” “Incapacitating” does not equal “delicious.”
- Don’t give a girl a weapon she can use on you when you break up. Stupid poetic justice.
It’s not that I don’t care about my friends—I just don’t care enough to buy them individualized gifts. I mean, the Death Star mall near my house is absolutely unapproachable this time of year. I’m praying that I’ll be able to take one day off of work and get all my shopping done in one fell swoop—but deep down I know that’s not realistic. I’m going to forget someone and then they’ll send me a card and a gift, meaning my only recourse is to go to the mall AGAIN. And each time I enter that place, I die a little inside.
Last year, I made a New Year’s resolution to be less charming so I’d have fewer friends to buy gifts for this Christmas. A quick scan of my list suggests that I’ve failed miserably. I almost had a nervous breakdown last year: I’m not even joking. I flipped out and wrote a Kwanza Card rant against White Jesus…Christ, what the fuck is wrong with me? The good news is that in retrospect I realize that it was a bit immature. This year I've composed a much better card for coping with my Holiday stress. It’ll just be a blank, white postcard with no pictures or return address. Instead, typed in simple black letters, this heart-warming holiday greeting will appear:
Someone you slept with has been diagnosed with AIDS.
Festive.
Seriously, the only chance I have of avoiding a holiday rampage of biblical proportions is to mass-shop. In that vein, it occurs to me that I should make it a themed holiday: A Communist Christmas. “All people are equal brother! Only capitalist dogs buy individual gifts.”
So my ideas for “mass gifting” are currently:
- Soviet berets
- Vodka
- Life-Size wax replicas of Lenin’s corpse
- Iron Curtains
- A card redeemable for one KGB style “disappearing” of a family member, co-worker, or ex of your choice.
- Temporary Gorbichav “head-stain” tattoos
- Vacations to a Siberian “camp.” Said get-away features “enthusiastic instructors,” “lots of outdoor activity,” mass-graves, and free gruel! Participation is mandatory.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Texting
An episode of the Boondocks refers to text messaging as “Nigga Technology.”
"And you don't start trippin and shit callin me a racist cuz I don't mean 'nigga' in a disrespectful way. I'm mean it as a general term for ignorant motherfuckas'."
-G. Rummy (Season 1, Episode 11. 02/12/2006)
The gist of the conversation being that texting is Nigga Technology because
"And you don't start trippin and shit callin me a racist cuz I don't mean 'nigga' in a disrespectful way. I'm mean it as a general term for ignorant motherfuckas'."
-G. Rummy (Season 1, Episode 11. 02/12/2006)
The gist of the conversation being that texting is Nigga Technology because
- It doesn’t hook up to a printer
- Nothing important has ever been typed by someone's thumbs.
This brings me to my current point. When I bought my current Cell phone plan I got zero stipulation for text messages. Why? Because it’s IN-FUCKING-SANE to spend 15 minutes typing out a message that would take two seconds to convey by calling. I’ve got THOUSANDS of minutes. Literally.
Thanks to rollover I currently have 5,670 unused minutes. Some people might take this as a sign that I’ve got no life. I disagree. See, most of those minutes have accumulated since my last break-up. So while you might see a guy with no social-life, I see 5,670 minutes of sweet, sweet, freedom. That’s 94 hours and 30 minutes I didn’t have to spend talking about feelings. That’s almost 4 whole days of not pretending to care about “my friend’s cousin’s boyfriend’s mom.” So don’t look on my unused minutes as an ode to pariah-ism. Look at it as a monument to my independence.
With all these anytime minutes, you’d think that someone would just pick up the phone. Nope. Last month I was charged an extra $70 for messages. $70. That’s roughly seven twelve packs of Rolling Rock. And when shit starts dipping into my drinking money it grabs my attention.
I’ve noticed that overwhelmingly, it seems to be females who enjoy sending me text messages. So either I have to learn to love cock, or start befriending women who’ve mastered the touchtone.
I have a couple theories why it’s the fair sex that predominantly dabbles in this Nigga Technology.
The first theory is that, in keeping with their nature, if given the choice, women overwhelmingly prefer to use their hands rather than their mouths. Which accounts for the dearth in quality blowjobs.
The second is that women are all but incapable of direct conversation. They don’t like calling up their friends, asking a question and then hanging up. If they’re going to commit to calling someone just to find out what they’re up to tonight, they first have to ask about their day, then their family, find out what they thought about the last episode of Desperate Housewives, bitch about that hot guy from the club who never called…then, 50 minutes later, they can finally find out that their friend has a full night of planned of watching Brad Pit movies and throwing up.
Texting is less confrontational than phone calls, so they have less guilt about just getting to the fucking point and moving on with their day.
Guess how many text messages I received last month from men: zero. And I know a whole lot of “ignorant motherfuckas.” Which makes me suspect, that as much as I enjoy the Boondocks, that they got it wrong: It’s not Nigga Technology at all. Texting is clearly the gadget of girls, the paraphernalia of pussies, and the belongings of bitches.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Foreign Flicks And Xian Hicks
Something about movies has been bothering me for years. Besides Brendan Frasier, I mean. Why is it that actors in films that take place in foreign countries all speak with British accents? It bugs the hell out of me.
Like in just about every single World War II move: the only people with German accents are the Nazis, who bark evilly. All the Jews and sympathizers have British accents. Even the French dudes speak like Michael Caine. When did that become a cinema standard? That’s my question. Who was the first asshole director to say, “What Jim? You can’t do a Russian Accent? Fuck it! Just talk like that Laurence Olivier cock-sucker. He’s from one of those ‘disputed-zone countries,’ right?”?
I’ll grant you, it’s hard to sound sexy, noble, or attractive through a thick German accent. The German language is a pretty powerful birth-control in its own right. I’ve been around Germans before: no matter what they’re talking about, it always sounds like they’re angry. Seriously, it’s a miracle those blue-eyed fucks get laid at all. “Did you ask me to take your bra off or to gas some Jews? Either way, I’m fully aroused.”
Enough about my movie rage though. Now it’s time for me to prepare for my HOLIDAY rage. With the end the annual gluttony celebration that is Thanksgiving, it’s time for our entire country to start driving ourselves into a frenzy in anticipation of Christmas. One of my favorite moments off all time came last year, as I watched a grown man of about 40 elbow a mom carrying a two year-old out of his way to grab a shopping cart. She flipped him off as the kid started to cry. Both were weighed down by bags that read “Happy Holidays” and “Seasons Greetings.” Ah, sweet irony.
Sometime last year, I became aware that Christians all over America were enraged at the contraction “Xmas” and the use of such multicultural colloquialisms as the ones listed on the shopping bags in the story above. Apparently they used it as proof that Christians were being discriminated against.
Look, we’re not being sacrilegious. Maybe we’re just lazy, ok?
I think they make a good point, though. I mean, honestly, what opportunity for advancement have White American Christians ever had? This is their Holocuast. Except, you know--not being rounded up into camps, gassed, or inconvenienced in anyway.
Fucktards. You're not Anne Frank, ok? You are to descrimination what JFK was to bullet-dodging. Do what you do best and find another culture to rub out. It’s early in the season, and I’m already sensing a sequel to last year’s nonsense. However, rather than flip out and threaten to desecrate a church like I did last year, I’ve devised a much more constructive outlet for my anger this time around.
Christians, as long as you continue to get your child-molesting, inbred, panty-wearing undies in a twist over supposed “religious insensitivity,” I will insist on referring to you as “Xians.” I don’t care whether you’re Baptist, Protestant, Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian, or Headupyourassians. Until you call off your dogs, you’re all just Xians gathering around the Xmas tree singing "We Wish You A Merry Xmas" while watching "Back to the Future" starring Xopher Lloyd and swapping Xina Agulara albums, Xian Slater films and bouquets of xanthemums in the name of your savior, Jesus X.
Happy Holidays, motherfuckers.
Like in just about every single World War II move: the only people with German accents are the Nazis, who bark evilly. All the Jews and sympathizers have British accents. Even the French dudes speak like Michael Caine. When did that become a cinema standard? That’s my question. Who was the first asshole director to say, “What Jim? You can’t do a Russian Accent? Fuck it! Just talk like that Laurence Olivier cock-sucker. He’s from one of those ‘disputed-zone countries,’ right?”?
I’ll grant you, it’s hard to sound sexy, noble, or attractive through a thick German accent. The German language is a pretty powerful birth-control in its own right. I’ve been around Germans before: no matter what they’re talking about, it always sounds like they’re angry. Seriously, it’s a miracle those blue-eyed fucks get laid at all. “Did you ask me to take your bra off or to gas some Jews? Either way, I’m fully aroused.”
Enough about my movie rage though. Now it’s time for me to prepare for my HOLIDAY rage. With the end the annual gluttony celebration that is Thanksgiving, it’s time for our entire country to start driving ourselves into a frenzy in anticipation of Christmas. One of my favorite moments off all time came last year, as I watched a grown man of about 40 elbow a mom carrying a two year-old out of his way to grab a shopping cart. She flipped him off as the kid started to cry. Both were weighed down by bags that read “Happy Holidays” and “Seasons Greetings.” Ah, sweet irony.
Sometime last year, I became aware that Christians all over America were enraged at the contraction “Xmas” and the use of such multicultural colloquialisms as the ones listed on the shopping bags in the story above. Apparently they used it as proof that Christians were being discriminated against.
Look, we’re not being sacrilegious. Maybe we’re just lazy, ok?
I think they make a good point, though. I mean, honestly, what opportunity for advancement have White American Christians ever had? This is their Holocuast. Except, you know--not being rounded up into camps, gassed, or inconvenienced in anyway.
Fucktards. You're not Anne Frank, ok? You are to descrimination what JFK was to bullet-dodging. Do what you do best and find another culture to rub out. It’s early in the season, and I’m already sensing a sequel to last year’s nonsense. However, rather than flip out and threaten to desecrate a church like I did last year, I’ve devised a much more constructive outlet for my anger this time around.
Christians, as long as you continue to get your child-molesting, inbred, panty-wearing undies in a twist over supposed “religious insensitivity,” I will insist on referring to you as “Xians.” I don’t care whether you’re Baptist, Protestant, Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian, or Headupyourassians. Until you call off your dogs, you’re all just Xians gathering around the Xmas tree singing "We Wish You A Merry Xmas" while watching "Back to the Future" starring Xopher Lloyd and swapping Xina Agulara albums, Xian Slater films and bouquets of xanthemums in the name of your savior, Jesus X.
Happy Holidays, motherfuckers.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Thanksgiving or International Pimp Ehren Day
Today I overheard a number of young ladies gabbing excitedly about their evening plans. Boyfriends to see, boyfriends to cheat on, liquor to drink, girlfriends to stab in the back—the usual.
“So all of you are going out tonight?” I asked.
“Oh of course!” they responded. “It’s the biggest party night of the year!”
Honestly, I’m not sure I agree with that title. I mean, it’s going to take some serious debauchery to steal the belt away from New Year’s Eve. I don’t think we’re there yet.
Really though, when did this happen? It’s only in the last few years that “The Wednesday before Thanksgiving” really entered into my consciousness as a drinking holiday. And this is from a dude who keeps Southern Comfort in his trunk to celebrate flat tires.
“Why is tonight such a big deal?” I asked. “I don’t even like my family when I’m sober. The thought of facing them all while completely hung-over might be grounds for suicide.”
It was about four years ago that I first realized how fucking brilliant my grandfather was. Because he came in made a bee-line for the bar and parked himself behind a glass of Scotch for the remainder of the day, taking breaks only for Turkey. Genius. I’ve been celebrating the same way ever since and I’ve never looked back.
Because there’s really no way to coast through this holiday sober. I’ll be asked the five questions below at least 15 times tomorrow. Guaranteed:
“So all of you are going out tonight?” I asked.
“Oh of course!” they responded. “It’s the biggest party night of the year!”
Honestly, I’m not sure I agree with that title. I mean, it’s going to take some serious debauchery to steal the belt away from New Year’s Eve. I don’t think we’re there yet.
Really though, when did this happen? It’s only in the last few years that “The Wednesday before Thanksgiving” really entered into my consciousness as a drinking holiday. And this is from a dude who keeps Southern Comfort in his trunk to celebrate flat tires.
“Why is tonight such a big deal?” I asked. “I don’t even like my family when I’m sober. The thought of facing them all while completely hung-over might be grounds for suicide.”
It was about four years ago that I first realized how fucking brilliant my grandfather was. Because he came in made a bee-line for the bar and parked himself behind a glass of Scotch for the remainder of the day, taking breaks only for Turkey. Genius. I’ve been celebrating the same way ever since and I’ve never looked back.
Because there’s really no way to coast through this holiday sober. I’ll be asked the five questions below at least 15 times tomorrow. Guaranteed:
- So, are you seeing anyone?
- When are you going to find a nice Jewish girl and settle down?
- Did you hear that your cousin/nephew/dog's friend's owner's landlord just got married?
- Just so you know: I don’t have any problem with gay people. Is there something you’d like to tell me?
- You know, there’s a very nice girl who works in my office. Would you like me to call her for you?
My family’s entire focus seems to be to expand until they dominate the globe. Which is strange, given what a weird bunch of dysfunctional fucks we are. See, I date plenty of women…but there’s a reason that none of them ever get invited to Thanksgiving. Nipple tassels don’t fit in with the dress code.
In all seriousness, I’ll probably have to turn down at least 10 blind dates tomorrow. Because if my family thinks they’re datable, I can be sure they’re no one I’d let within ten feet of me. Why? I’m related to the losers these people have married.
The last time my family tried to set me up with someone, the conversation went like this:
Dad: Hey, Ehren. There’s a girl I’d like you to meet. She’s the daughter of this guy I know from work.
Me: Ummmm…yeah, I’m kinda busy.
Dad: Look, I told her about you and she gave me her number.
Me: She gave YOU her number? What kind of social pariah is she?
Dad: She’s great. She’s into sports, movies, and hamburgers.
Me: So she’s fat?
At least my immediate family knows better now. Tomorrow, maybe I can educate my extended family with the help of the only person I’ll honestly be pleased to see: Mr. Johnny Walker.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Happy Anniversary, Bitches!
As a rule, I’m not a sentimental dude. I skipped my university’s commencement ceremony and I don’t do anything for my birthday. Hell, I would have skipped High School graduation and the Prom, too if I’d had a choice.
None-the-less today is my blogging anniversary, and while I don’t plan on getting all mushy on you, I thought it’d be nice to reflect a bit on the past year.
Over the last 356 days I posted 239 times, had sex with 7 different girls and destroyed 2 different transmissions. I’ve been single and desperate, single and pursued, and happily dating. My writing has gone from woefully rusty, to slightly less rusty, and occationally insightful or, at least, amusing. Honestly, the act of scribbling out my thoughts once a day (even if they’re not profound, well focused, or coherent) has been a wonderfully inspiring process.
I never really considered whether other people would actually read or enjoy the stuff I posted here. I started because I hadn’t done any creative writing in about two years, and when I began putting my thoughts onto paper, I realized how much I missed it. A year later, sitting down to write is still one of the most rewarding portions of my day.
The last thing I ever considered was what people would think of me, based on my blog. What you have to understand is that the things that I write about are the most crazy, depraved, or rage-filled thoughts or moments of my day. As a result, I think I sometimes get mistaken for being a complete fucking dick. The truth is I'm only a dick about 80-85% of the time, tops.
My audience has been wonderful. I used to be ecstatic when I got 100 hits in a month. Last month my blog was loaded 1,625 times. I’m on pace for 2,000 in November. My favorite part of this whole process has been watching this go from a monologue to a conversation. Thanks to every one who read, posted a comment, or passed my link to someone else over the past year. You people rock.
OK, I’m done being sentimental. There’s plenty more hate for the year to come. In the meantime, however, below is a list of my top ten favorite posts from the last year. Enjoy.
10. World Cee U Pee: Some of my favorite posts have come when I go off on random tangents and work myself up into a rage. It’s a classic rant that, to this day, I’m completely lost as to where it came from. Still...fuck the World Cup.
9. Nascar: Why Not Stay Home And Molest Your Sister Instead: There’s nothing like an ignorant northerner lashing out against a “sport” he doesn’t understand. And while he’s at it, why not take a few completely unnecessary swipes at people in states he's never visited?
8. International Fuck Men And Buy A Vibrator Day: For a while, my friend was grading my writing on a “Hate-o-meter,” spurring me to crazier and crazier rants. This post was off the scale. The Hate-o-meter never recovered.
7. What Would Jesus Drink? Religion has long been one of my favorite punching bags. Mostly because fanatics are the easiest to provoke and provide the most hilarious when they explode. Borat is based on this concept.
6. DVD Extras: Hollywood, look out. God knows what was going on in my life to get me this riled up.
5. Palisades Mall: Death Star of Suburbia: This post will always have a fond place in my heart. God, I hate that fucking mall. Also, fun (and totally uncalled for) swipes at teenagers, consumerism, and Barbra Bush.
4. Jerking Off For Jesus: I love this post because I had no idea what I was going to write about when I sat down. The whole thing developed as I went on with almost no effort involved. All the jokes came to me one after another, without any effort. I was crying with laughter while I wrote this.
3. Exlympics: This is a compilation of tales that happened to my friends, concerning their ex-boyfriends. If anyone ever doubts the craziness of my friends, they really need go no further than this post.
2. No-Doze: Legal Angel Dust: Despite what you probably think of me at this point, I really am very conservative when it comes to mind-altering substances. I’ve never even smoked weed. I figure I’m crazy enough without anything extra. However, if you’re looking for my one dabbling into the realm of drugs that left me absolutely, bat-shit insane, this is it.
1. Six Words That Instantly Command The Attention Of Any Man: It really wasn’t close as to what was going to be my favorite post of the last year. Lots of people have commented to me that they enjoy the way I tell little stories from my life. This is definitely up there in the weirdest events ever to happen to me over the course of my very strange life. The funny thing is it almost never made it to print. I sat on this story for about two months before finally just writing it down when I couldn’t think of anything else to post. My pain is your gain, so enjoy!
Thanks again to everyone. It’s been a crazy year. Here’s to many more.
None-the-less today is my blogging anniversary, and while I don’t plan on getting all mushy on you, I thought it’d be nice to reflect a bit on the past year.
Over the last 356 days I posted 239 times, had sex with 7 different girls and destroyed 2 different transmissions. I’ve been single and desperate, single and pursued, and happily dating. My writing has gone from woefully rusty, to slightly less rusty, and occationally insightful or, at least, amusing. Honestly, the act of scribbling out my thoughts once a day (even if they’re not profound, well focused, or coherent) has been a wonderfully inspiring process.
I never really considered whether other people would actually read or enjoy the stuff I posted here. I started because I hadn’t done any creative writing in about two years, and when I began putting my thoughts onto paper, I realized how much I missed it. A year later, sitting down to write is still one of the most rewarding portions of my day.
The last thing I ever considered was what people would think of me, based on my blog. What you have to understand is that the things that I write about are the most crazy, depraved, or rage-filled thoughts or moments of my day. As a result, I think I sometimes get mistaken for being a complete fucking dick. The truth is I'm only a dick about 80-85% of the time, tops.
My audience has been wonderful. I used to be ecstatic when I got 100 hits in a month. Last month my blog was loaded 1,625 times. I’m on pace for 2,000 in November. My favorite part of this whole process has been watching this go from a monologue to a conversation. Thanks to every one who read, posted a comment, or passed my link to someone else over the past year. You people rock.
OK, I’m done being sentimental. There’s plenty more hate for the year to come. In the meantime, however, below is a list of my top ten favorite posts from the last year. Enjoy.
10. World Cee U Pee: Some of my favorite posts have come when I go off on random tangents and work myself up into a rage. It’s a classic rant that, to this day, I’m completely lost as to where it came from. Still...fuck the World Cup.
9. Nascar: Why Not Stay Home And Molest Your Sister Instead: There’s nothing like an ignorant northerner lashing out against a “sport” he doesn’t understand. And while he’s at it, why not take a few completely unnecessary swipes at people in states he's never visited?
8. International Fuck Men And Buy A Vibrator Day: For a while, my friend was grading my writing on a “Hate-o-meter,” spurring me to crazier and crazier rants. This post was off the scale. The Hate-o-meter never recovered.
7. What Would Jesus Drink? Religion has long been one of my favorite punching bags. Mostly because fanatics are the easiest to provoke and provide the most hilarious when they explode. Borat is based on this concept.
6. DVD Extras: Hollywood, look out. God knows what was going on in my life to get me this riled up.
5. Palisades Mall: Death Star of Suburbia: This post will always have a fond place in my heart. God, I hate that fucking mall. Also, fun (and totally uncalled for) swipes at teenagers, consumerism, and Barbra Bush.
4. Jerking Off For Jesus: I love this post because I had no idea what I was going to write about when I sat down. The whole thing developed as I went on with almost no effort involved. All the jokes came to me one after another, without any effort. I was crying with laughter while I wrote this.
3. Exlympics: This is a compilation of tales that happened to my friends, concerning their ex-boyfriends. If anyone ever doubts the craziness of my friends, they really need go no further than this post.
2. No-Doze: Legal Angel Dust: Despite what you probably think of me at this point, I really am very conservative when it comes to mind-altering substances. I’ve never even smoked weed. I figure I’m crazy enough without anything extra. However, if you’re looking for my one dabbling into the realm of drugs that left me absolutely, bat-shit insane, this is it.
1. Six Words That Instantly Command The Attention Of Any Man: It really wasn’t close as to what was going to be my favorite post of the last year. Lots of people have commented to me that they enjoy the way I tell little stories from my life. This is definitely up there in the weirdest events ever to happen to me over the course of my very strange life. The funny thing is it almost never made it to print. I sat on this story for about two months before finally just writing it down when I couldn’t think of anything else to post. My pain is your gain, so enjoy!
Thanks again to everyone. It’s been a crazy year. Here’s to many more.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Karma's Broken Condom
Halfway through my fourth pint glass of Vodka and Soda on Friday night, I looked up to see an unbelievably attractive redhead strut into the bar, along with a posse of friends. Freckles, button nose, and an enormous pair of perfect…eyes. If liquor equals courage, she was the reason that Irish men drink. Because she was hot enough to scare off any mere mortal.
Now, at this point, I’m sure you, the reader, think you have an idea about where this story is going. I mean, I’ve been drinking, I have little if any regard for tact or common decency, so it’s natural to think you have an inkling. I tell you now: you have no clue.
She was surrounded by a group, predominantly male, whom she seemed extremely friendly with. I did a head count, which, considering the amount of liquor I’d absorbed, took far longer than it should have: five guys in her group, two, plus my little sister in mine. Now while my sister is tough, she can’t weight more than 90 pounds soaking wet. So I concluded that incurring the wrath of this girl’s posse was simply not worth the potential blood shed, not to mention the tragic waste of alcohol. So I filed the girl away for future masturbatory reference, and went back to telling jokes.
Perhaps 5 minutes later, I glanced up to see the very same Irish goddess descending on me. When we made eye-contact she smiled and waved. I looked lost. In other words, my normal operating mode.
“Hi Ehren!” She said brightly, throwing her arms around me.
Now, I may not be great with names, but I rarely forget a pair of breasts. However, in this case I was completely lost. This girl was hot enough to be close to impossible to forget. Yet here I was: completely cluesly about the name of the girl wrapping her arms around me. In other words, the usual situation upon regaining consciousness every Sunday morning.
“Umm…Hi!” I said. Under normal circumstances, I’d be deft enough to introduce my friends so she’d drop her name…but I was still in shock from being approached by a girl I had already marked as a lost cause. And completely non-plused that I'd failed to remember meeting this highly fuck-able girl.
“How’ve you been?” she beamed.
“Good…”
“You don’t remember me?”
“Did I make an insensitive comment to you at a bar?”
“You dated a friend of mine, remember!”
And suddenly it all came rushing back. A few weeks ago, I wrote about a girl who decided to stop seeing me so she could re-up things with her ex-boyfriend…who just happened to be a compulsive cheater hooked on coke. The friend failed to be registered on my potential lay radar because:
Now, at this point, I’m sure you, the reader, think you have an idea about where this story is going. I mean, I’ve been drinking, I have little if any regard for tact or common decency, so it’s natural to think you have an inkling. I tell you now: you have no clue.
She was surrounded by a group, predominantly male, whom she seemed extremely friendly with. I did a head count, which, considering the amount of liquor I’d absorbed, took far longer than it should have: five guys in her group, two, plus my little sister in mine. Now while my sister is tough, she can’t weight more than 90 pounds soaking wet. So I concluded that incurring the wrath of this girl’s posse was simply not worth the potential blood shed, not to mention the tragic waste of alcohol. So I filed the girl away for future masturbatory reference, and went back to telling jokes.
Perhaps 5 minutes later, I glanced up to see the very same Irish goddess descending on me. When we made eye-contact she smiled and waved. I looked lost. In other words, my normal operating mode.
“Hi Ehren!” She said brightly, throwing her arms around me.
Now, I may not be great with names, but I rarely forget a pair of breasts. However, in this case I was completely lost. This girl was hot enough to be close to impossible to forget. Yet here I was: completely cluesly about the name of the girl wrapping her arms around me. In other words, the usual situation upon regaining consciousness every Sunday morning.
“Umm…Hi!” I said. Under normal circumstances, I’d be deft enough to introduce my friends so she’d drop her name…but I was still in shock from being approached by a girl I had already marked as a lost cause. And completely non-plused that I'd failed to remember meeting this highly fuck-able girl.
“How’ve you been?” she beamed.
“Good…”
“You don’t remember me?”
“Did I make an insensitive comment to you at a bar?”
“You dated a friend of mine, remember!”
And suddenly it all came rushing back. A few weeks ago, I wrote about a girl who decided to stop seeing me so she could re-up things with her ex-boyfriend…who just happened to be a compulsive cheater hooked on coke. The friend failed to be registered on my potential lay radar because:
- The girl I was seeing was a hotty in her own right
- The vision of Irish beauty standing before me was married, with a kid.
One doesn't get far with a girl by hitting on her married best friend.
"Of course!” I exclaimed, where-upon I went about introducing her around the table. “Doesn’t she look great?” I asked my friend. “You’d never know that she had two kids.”
“Actually, I’ve only got one” she corrected me.
“Well, he’s fat enough to count for two.” Honestly, I don’t know where this came from. Except I was suddenly ready to take out some of my unresolved feelings of rejection regarding my ex.
“So” I went on. “Is she still seeing that cokehead?”
“Uh…yeah. You didn’t hear?”
“I haven’t heard anything from her in quite some time.”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Jack,” I asked turning to my friend. “I know they have crack babies, do they have coke babies, too?”
It’s somewhat comforting to have an unmistakably confirmation that I was obviously a better choice than her “baby’s daddy.” I mean, I’m not hooked on blow AND I know how to operate a condom. Compared to this loser, I’m the catch of the fucking century. I’m Lenny Kravitz, Derek Jeter, and George Clooney rolled into one.
Not to beat a dead horse, but I’d like to once more go over the choices presented to this young lady a few weeks ago:
Ehren: funny, smart, educated, and holding down a steady job.
Ex boyfriend: high school grad, working various “part-time, and one-time jobs.” Cheated multiple times, lied constantly, and was hooked on coke.
Now she’s knocked up and relying on said addict. Goodbye, degree. Goodbye, freedom.
On the other hand, I guess I’m not that big a prize. I mean…I snore...sometimes. Also, there’s no added excitement of wondering if I had sex with anyone else that day.
I don’t know. Maybe it’s just coincidence. Then again, maybe it’s karma in the form of a dude who forgot to pull-out.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)