Lee & Krys in NJ part 1:
New Jersey is what I'd consider the worlds cesspool. It's an abominate, abhorent, contempitable state with little to offer... (other than nearly leagal prostitution and an oddly high count of 24 hour Dunkin Donuts). The only upside to this night was a single good looking strumpet. She winked at us, if only to non chilantly offer her services without being too forward.
The begining:
If Jersey wasn't disgusting enough with the nasty, rotten stench of herpes infested prostitutes. My friend came to visit me from upstate new york, and during one of his stories about his lenient uncle (who use to handcuff his girlfriends and put their vagina's on display for young Krystopher to visually explore), we were abruptly interrupted by a scene like no other. A young fellow, who is probably the head cashier at the local Paki-mart, was receiving a tender oral massage while driving towards the Lincoln tunnel with no passenger in sight. As he put on his four-ways, we noticed a woman's head pop up from under the steering wheel; a woman -presumably a prostitute- popped her head from underneath the dashboard. The whore had him stop the vehicle on the side of the road to spit out what I believe was excess cum she could not swallow. This young man must have had quite the load if a jersey harlot could not contain his semen. Noticing the hysterics ahead of us, Krys, mid-sentence, halted his nonsensical prattle about his childhood misadventures in order to give the screen-written-esque scene taking place ahead of us, his utter and undivided attention.
Later That Night:
It is not 3:21am. I am sitting in an overpriced motel (the type of motel that has mirrored ceilings and rooms by the hour. Hell, there are even hookers available outside for the lazy, and a candy bar machine that sells Newport's alongside the snickers bar). How inviting. I'm half-heatedly listening to Krys rambling about the interjections of his Asian mistress from across the country, when I stumble across an interesting craigslist ad.
But First...
Me and Krys decided to walk a grueling mile to the local 24 hour Dunkin Donuts. We were well aware of the motels integrity before checking in, but we never expected to be greeted by 3 police cruisers and several hookers scattered across the parking lot upon our return. Evidently someone wasn't satisfied with their 12 dollar blow job... the hot chocolate from Dunkin Donuts was good though.
The Indian (non English-speaking) employees (aka family members of the owner) didn't seem as cooperative with our relentless questioning as I expected. I was told that Indians were generous and hospitable people ... lies were told.
Back In The Room:
Krys decided to air-out his Athletes Foot infested feet around the desk area, distributing the smell of a thousand unwashed balls around my face. It was on purpose, I'm sure of it. Meanwhile, as I was choking on the wretched stench of his toe residue, I realized that the girl I had emailed earlier finally responded to my outlandish email:
"If me and my friend tape our cocks together, it's almost 10 inches.. Almost. Listen babe, lets cut to the turnpike and get this wagon-wheel rollin'"
Her post asked for a well endowed man that was both attractive and fit. With impossible odds like those, I decided to shoot for the stars.
Her reply to my odd email however, was quite a literal releif:
"If you guys wanna get dirty with me, just verify you're real at this website"
Her response included a link which led me to a porn site I then used to satisfy my need for a female with.
The end... for now
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Imaginations Are For Losers And Children. Same Thing.
As a child, I never felt comfortable playing imaginary games with nonexistent characters. You shouldn't invent friends just because you don't have any. If real people don't want to be your friend, it might have something to do with you talking to yourself all the time.
You can pretend that the frozen meal your mother forces you to eat before bedtime is a steak, but that doesn't make it a steak. You can wish whatever you want, it probably won't come true. It's nice to believe, sure. You can wish to take flight with a paper plane from a 10 story building. I guarantee the results are a sad 10 O'Clock news coverage and an RIP Myspace.
But don't let that stop you from making imaginary friends...
You can pretend that the frozen meal your mother forces you to eat before bedtime is a steak, but that doesn't make it a steak. You can wish whatever you want, it probably won't come true. It's nice to believe, sure. You can wish to take flight with a paper plane from a 10 story building. I guarantee the results are a sad 10 O'Clock news coverage and an RIP Myspace.
But don't let that stop you from making imaginary friends...
Mom! How Could You Not Tell Me That I Had A Relative In Africa!?
If you dislike my random stories, rants and general nonsense... You're going to love this.
I don't want to be buried or cremated. I want to be forever preserved cryogenically and kept in the living room of my loved ones homes in a transparent preservation tank. Naked. That way I can creep people out even after I'm dead. Take that girl at the bar last night that said I stare too much!
She said my approach was odd, off-putting and generally disturbing.
She was obviously drunk out of her mind.
I don't even understand peoples (more specifically, girls) issues with my pickup lines. What's wrong with saying "Hey, I'm a chronic masturbator. What's up?". I understand that it doesn't actually get any particular message across, other than you suffering from CMS (Chronic Masturbation Syndrome), but it sets a certain mood. It really says "Hey, I'm an honest guy with probable chaffing. What's up?".
On a website I visit someone posed the question:
"Would You Wear a "Free Lindsay" T-Shirt?"
My response was:
"I'd wear a "Free Lindsay" shirt if it also said In to the Lions Den"
Why? I don't support drugs nor prostitution (unless it's immediately available to me after a drinking binge for under $20 and negotiable - either one, by the way).
Back to my story:
Amidst the sparkling conversation, I began to buckle under the pressure of her questioning. I mean, she was one of those girls that keeps repeating herself. It was cute at first, but there's only so many times I can hear:
"Leave me alone! Stop following me you creep"
Bitch was like a broken record. So finally, I ended my pursuit with a bang. I figured if there's anything girls like it's a man who's persistent, so I told security she was doing heavy amounts of cocaine in the bathroom and needed to be escorted home. When they were getting her address I accidentally stood close enough to overhear it and write it down.
To be continued.
I don't want to be buried or cremated. I want to be forever preserved cryogenically and kept in the living room of my loved ones homes in a transparent preservation tank. Naked. That way I can creep people out even after I'm dead. Take that girl at the bar last night that said I stare too much!
She said my approach was odd, off-putting and generally disturbing.
She was obviously drunk out of her mind.
I don't even understand peoples (more specifically, girls) issues with my pickup lines. What's wrong with saying "Hey, I'm a chronic masturbator. What's up?". I understand that it doesn't actually get any particular message across, other than you suffering from CMS (Chronic Masturbation Syndrome), but it sets a certain mood. It really says "Hey, I'm an honest guy with probable chaffing. What's up?".
On a website I visit someone posed the question:
"Would You Wear a "Free Lindsay" T-Shirt?"
My response was:
"I'd wear a "Free Lindsay" shirt if it also said In to the Lions Den"
Why? I don't support drugs nor prostitution (unless it's immediately available to me after a drinking binge for under $20 and negotiable - either one, by the way).
Back to my story:
Amidst the sparkling conversation, I began to buckle under the pressure of her questioning. I mean, she was one of those girls that keeps repeating herself. It was cute at first, but there's only so many times I can hear:
"Leave me alone! Stop following me you creep"
Bitch was like a broken record. So finally, I ended my pursuit with a bang. I figured if there's anything girls like it's a man who's persistent, so I told security she was doing heavy amounts of cocaine in the bathroom and needed to be escorted home. When they were getting her address I accidentally stood close enough to overhear it and write it down.
To be continued.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Death Row: What's Your Last Meal?
In my lifetime I've tasted pork that was prepared in a wide variety of recipes, but this afternoon when I entered the Indian Mart down the road from the Motel I'm staying at, I vomited a little in my mouth. The foul smell could only be described as a combination of human feces, freshly harvested boar organs and boiled rotten ostrich eggs. I was disgusted, but intrigued at the same time. I wanted to taste this foul batch of sausage not just to discover whether or not its taste reflects the wretched stench, but to better understand the Indian culture that surrounds me. However, that never panned out. When I asked the Indian man for a taste, he attempted to stab me with a fork.
What happened next:
As I was escaping his cardboard box resembling excuse for a store, I bumped in to a woman that looked a lot like Julia Roberts lips. She was probably screening the parking lot, searching for a car she could siphon gas from without a hose. She initiated conversation:
WOMAN
What time is it?
ME
Time for you to get lip-O suction.
My conversations with ugly girls don't often last longer than sex with a hot girl. It doesn't really matter, she was probably just going to purchase some condoms for a big night with her vegetables. I don't think the fact that my standards are insanely high should detour women from sending me marriage proposals or nude photos. Just make sure you're really hot, otherwise I'll just post your pictures online (after editing them excessively, of course).
What happened next:
As I was escaping his cardboard box resembling excuse for a store, I bumped in to a woman that looked a lot like Julia Roberts lips. She was probably screening the parking lot, searching for a car she could siphon gas from without a hose. She initiated conversation:
WOMAN
What time is it?
ME
Time for you to get lip-O suction.
My conversations with ugly girls don't often last longer than sex with a hot girl. It doesn't really matter, she was probably just going to purchase some condoms for a big night with her vegetables. I don't think the fact that my standards are insanely high should detour women from sending me marriage proposals or nude photos. Just make sure you're really hot, otherwise I'll just post your pictures online (after editing them excessively, of course).
A Diary Of Last Friday - Part 1
This is an old blog post from a myspace blog I once had. I'll be posting the entire series for you people to ignore and never read.
I woke up in the morning (Morning... 1:06pm) and I thought to myself, what better way to start my day than by taking a walk? I decided not to however, after becoming quite involved in the episode of "Fairly Odd Parents" that was on T.V.
2:00pm: I walk in to the kitchen from my bedroom. I grab a coke.
2:01pm: I realize that the cat had been drinking out of my cup. I immediately find him and toss him against the wall. Fucking bastard.
2:08pm: I decide that since I have already been up for over 35 minutes, it's as good a time as ever to grab some Bacardi 101.
2:10pm: 13 shots later I am inebriated. Several friends decide to stop by randomly... For some reason my place has become a hangout spot.
2:30pm: I begin making impossible bets with my friends involving extreme physical strength and pass out in the bathroom while taking a piss.
2:43pm: I open my eyes only to find myself covered in red lipstick. I notice that my pubes have been shaven to look like a Mexican style mustache. I am very aggravated.
2:50pm: I declare my hunger out loud in my empty home. I grab a coat and make my way out of the front door (Note: There is no back door).
3:00pm: I approach the supermarket and am greeted by a manly looking lass. I feel intriguingly attracted to her/him. I decide to dedicate several minutes in the public bathroom to release my never to be born children on to the already cum drenched toilet seats of "Food Lion" (because lions have so much in common with supermarkets).
3:01pm: I am relieved. I walk out of the supermarket bathroom when I realize that I forgot my wallet at home. I ask the manager if I could borrow his car by stripping the keys from his belt buckle. He does not approve of this, and calls security.
3:06pm: I am being dragged out of Food Lion by a short but tempered Latin security guard. I insist that I am innocent. He is either ignoring me, or does not speak English... or both.
4:00pm: I am back at the house. I feel empty inside, and decide to sleep off my anguish.
2:00pm: I wake up. I am very tired and agitated. I can feel the cat licking my balls. After several dozen licks I decide that this is a horrible thing to do without first feeding him.
Between 2:00pm and 6:00pm nothing of interest occurs. (I masturbate to some old 80's porn mags, warm up some Ravioli and watch a couple SpongeBob reruns.
6:21pm: I invite my neighbor over for a drink. He insists that he shouldn't as it may cause trouble due to a heart murmur and liver infection he "suffers" from. I tell him that he is speaking nonsense, and send him over a shot of Captain Morgan.
6:39pm: I try to ignore the ambulance sirens and ruckus coming from next door as I concentrate on pwning noobz on America's Army Online.
7:00pm: I decide to shower since it has been several days. I smell myself and immediately rush to the bathroom.
9:23pm: I wake up shriveled up in the bathtub, which I find to be odd considering I was showering. I check the side of my stomach for scars( for fear of being abducted by kidney thieves). I find nothing, and leave the tub.
9:24pm: My penis looks like a cashew. I gasp at the thought of it never returning to its full peanut size.
Nothing interesting or note worthy occurs between 9:24pm and 11:43pm. I worked the hand held vacuum trying to restore my testicular mass. This failed miserably, leaving my cashew size penis a hideous shade of purple.
11:43pm: My friend calls my cellphone and tells me that I have to come over. I tell him he is an asshole for shaving my balls and that I now feel like a woman. He argues that I was pretty much a woman beforehand, and tells me to just stop being a weazing vagina and come over. I comply.
1:00am: I purposely make extremely obnoxious noises when entering his house, banging on trash cans and mailboxes along the way. He calls me a jerk, I flash my male boob and rub it with the tip of my pinky. He is aroused, although he denies it.
Between 1:00am and 5:00am we played Mario Kart on his "Oh So Gay" Nintendo Wii while his sister masturbated to photos of me flexing my ass muscles. Okay, so the second part never happened, but I bet she wishes she had that photo.
I woke up in the morning (Morning... 1:06pm) and I thought to myself, what better way to start my day than by taking a walk? I decided not to however, after becoming quite involved in the episode of "Fairly Odd Parents" that was on T.V.
2:00pm: I walk in to the kitchen from my bedroom. I grab a coke.
2:01pm: I realize that the cat had been drinking out of my cup. I immediately find him and toss him against the wall. Fucking bastard.
2:08pm: I decide that since I have already been up for over 35 minutes, it's as good a time as ever to grab some Bacardi 101.
2:10pm: 13 shots later I am inebriated. Several friends decide to stop by randomly... For some reason my place has become a hangout spot.
2:30pm: I begin making impossible bets with my friends involving extreme physical strength and pass out in the bathroom while taking a piss.
2:43pm: I open my eyes only to find myself covered in red lipstick. I notice that my pubes have been shaven to look like a Mexican style mustache. I am very aggravated.
2:50pm: I declare my hunger out loud in my empty home. I grab a coat and make my way out of the front door (Note: There is no back door).
3:00pm: I approach the supermarket and am greeted by a manly looking lass. I feel intriguingly attracted to her/him. I decide to dedicate several minutes in the public bathroom to release my never to be born children on to the already cum drenched toilet seats of "Food Lion" (because lions have so much in common with supermarkets).
3:01pm: I am relieved. I walk out of the supermarket bathroom when I realize that I forgot my wallet at home. I ask the manager if I could borrow his car by stripping the keys from his belt buckle. He does not approve of this, and calls security.
3:06pm: I am being dragged out of Food Lion by a short but tempered Latin security guard. I insist that I am innocent. He is either ignoring me, or does not speak English... or both.
4:00pm: I am back at the house. I feel empty inside, and decide to sleep off my anguish.
2:00pm: I wake up. I am very tired and agitated. I can feel the cat licking my balls. After several dozen licks I decide that this is a horrible thing to do without first feeding him.
Between 2:00pm and 6:00pm nothing of interest occurs. (I masturbate to some old 80's porn mags, warm up some Ravioli and watch a couple SpongeBob reruns.
6:21pm: I invite my neighbor over for a drink. He insists that he shouldn't as it may cause trouble due to a heart murmur and liver infection he "suffers" from. I tell him that he is speaking nonsense, and send him over a shot of Captain Morgan.
6:39pm: I try to ignore the ambulance sirens and ruckus coming from next door as I concentrate on pwning noobz on America's Army Online.
7:00pm: I decide to shower since it has been several days. I smell myself and immediately rush to the bathroom.
9:23pm: I wake up shriveled up in the bathtub, which I find to be odd considering I was showering. I check the side of my stomach for scars( for fear of being abducted by kidney thieves). I find nothing, and leave the tub.
9:24pm: My penis looks like a cashew. I gasp at the thought of it never returning to its full peanut size.
Nothing interesting or note worthy occurs between 9:24pm and 11:43pm. I worked the hand held vacuum trying to restore my testicular mass. This failed miserably, leaving my cashew size penis a hideous shade of purple.
11:43pm: My friend calls my cellphone and tells me that I have to come over. I tell him he is an asshole for shaving my balls and that I now feel like a woman. He argues that I was pretty much a woman beforehand, and tells me to just stop being a weazing vagina and come over. I comply.
1:00am: I purposely make extremely obnoxious noises when entering his house, banging on trash cans and mailboxes along the way. He calls me a jerk, I flash my male boob and rub it with the tip of my pinky. He is aroused, although he denies it.
Between 1:00am and 5:00am we played Mario Kart on his "Oh So Gay" Nintendo Wii while his sister masturbated to photos of me flexing my ass muscles. Okay, so the second part never happened, but I bet she wishes she had that photo.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
God, I Wish I Was Popular!
When you're approached by a prostitute (like I was about 20 minutes ago), before you even consider whether or not it would be safe to exchange a crisp 20 dollar bill for her warm, tobacco tainted mouth, I suggest you double check her arms for cigarette burns (aka pimp punishment) and her lips for large pulsating bulges, because that could be a sign of herpes. Or acne, which leaves the possibility of her being underage.
When approaching me, this lone hooker hadn't the slightest idea who I was. She figured, hey, here is a man that looks lonely. I should offer him a service he probably can't get on his own. She probably thought it would make her a humanitarian. And 20 bucks, of course. Well hooker, just because I subscribe to Victorias Secret news letter with no intention of ever purchasing a brassiere doesn't make me a bad guy. I can get plenty of girls, I just have to get them drunk enough to not realize that I am ignoring every word they mutter, and am explicitly insulting them every moment I'm not struggling to prevent myself from grabbing one of their breasts.
Some women would call me a pig, others a visionary. Actually, no woman calls me a visionary. It's mostly that pig thing that I hear a lot. Oh well, that revelation usually comes about during breakfast conversation, which usually goes a little something like this:
GIRL
Good morning.
ME
Good morning. Can you make breakfast?
GIRL
You can make me something, no?
ME
2 eggs, rye toast and orange juice with no pulp. If I find one piece of pulp, you'll be sorry!
GIRL
What?
ME
Is breakfast being prepared?
GIRL
What? No!
ME
Oh, well why are you still here? Did you forget your purse? Oh that's right, it's my purse now.
At that point they either take off frantically, or I pull out a gun and then they take off frantically. I should have mentioned that this is how I make a living as well.
When approaching me, this lone hooker hadn't the slightest idea who I was. She figured, hey, here is a man that looks lonely. I should offer him a service he probably can't get on his own. She probably thought it would make her a humanitarian. And 20 bucks, of course. Well hooker, just because I subscribe to Victorias Secret news letter with no intention of ever purchasing a brassiere doesn't make me a bad guy. I can get plenty of girls, I just have to get them drunk enough to not realize that I am ignoring every word they mutter, and am explicitly insulting them every moment I'm not struggling to prevent myself from grabbing one of their breasts.
Some women would call me a pig, others a visionary. Actually, no woman calls me a visionary. It's mostly that pig thing that I hear a lot. Oh well, that revelation usually comes about during breakfast conversation, which usually goes a little something like this:
GIRL
Good morning.
ME
Good morning. Can you make breakfast?
GIRL
You can make me something, no?
ME
2 eggs, rye toast and orange juice with no pulp. If I find one piece of pulp, you'll be sorry!
GIRL
What?
ME
Is breakfast being prepared?
GIRL
What? No!
ME
Oh, well why are you still here? Did you forget your purse? Oh that's right, it's my purse now.
At that point they either take off frantically, or I pull out a gun and then they take off frantically. I should have mentioned that this is how I make a living as well.
Friday, September 17, 2010
The Drive Thru Debacle Part 1
I've always been a fan of fast food, because there's nothing like a greasy stain on your sweatshirt to commemorate a future heart attack. The following story captures what I managed to remember from my adventure to Burger King last year, and why I no longer visit that septic pit of an eatery.
A while back I faced a complicated predicament. I could either eat at Burger King, which was across the street from my house, or McDonald's, which was down three blocks. The reason this decision was complicated: I live in the nasty part of town. By nasty, I mean 3 dollar lap dance strip clubs. Gritty, slime ball characters that speak with a Boston accent, even though they were born and raised in Seattle. Dirty restaurants that serve cat, and Chinese restaurants that serve chicken. Dangerous people, disgusting sidewalks and random gang fights breaking out at random hours of the night.
Anyway, the cleanliness at these local eateries was questionable, and the hygiene of the McEmployees was intolerable. I wasn't sure, so I decided to go for the King. God, did I regret that decision. It was the night I experienced the miracle of birth. Out of my ass.
What did I learn from this? Nothing. I still frequent Taco Bell and other similar trash bins of fats, carbs and human waste. There's no price tag on my dignity. Well, maybe there is, but isn't life just something we should waste? I read that we all become little glowing children and get to prance around a city of gold and clouds. Honestly, sounds a little gay to me, but eternal life had to have a catch.
A while back I faced a complicated predicament. I could either eat at Burger King, which was across the street from my house, or McDonald's, which was down three blocks. The reason this decision was complicated: I live in the nasty part of town. By nasty, I mean 3 dollar lap dance strip clubs. Gritty, slime ball characters that speak with a Boston accent, even though they were born and raised in Seattle. Dirty restaurants that serve cat, and Chinese restaurants that serve chicken. Dangerous people, disgusting sidewalks and random gang fights breaking out at random hours of the night.
Anyway, the cleanliness at these local eateries was questionable, and the hygiene of the McEmployees was intolerable. I wasn't sure, so I decided to go for the King. God, did I regret that decision. It was the night I experienced the miracle of birth. Out of my ass.
What did I learn from this? Nothing. I still frequent Taco Bell and other similar trash bins of fats, carbs and human waste. There's no price tag on my dignity. Well, maybe there is, but isn't life just something we should waste? I read that we all become little glowing children and get to prance around a city of gold and clouds. Honestly, sounds a little gay to me, but eternal life had to have a catch.
Ouch Daddy, That Hurts!
Public bathrooms are a good place to hang out if you're in the search for a life threatening STD or a shady character selling pills that he claims are ecstasy, but are probably just condensed baby laxative or Tylenol PM. It's not just the toilet rim that is infested with bacteria and possibly hepatitis, either. It's everywhere. Nobody washes their hands after urinating. Of course, some guys run the sink water so the people in the stall think that hands are being washed, but nobody truly does. Nobody.
Even with all the evidence that public bathrooms are the number one hangout for infectious diseases, gangs such as the Bloods & Crips, and serial killers like Son Of Sam, my problem is with something completely different. I hate when the person in the stall next to yours tries to spark a conversations while dropping the brown bombs. Repainting the toilet is a sacred process, and requires concentration and silence. But, there's always some fat-fuck with an agenda to tell you about his "make believe" wife, pet ferret and mint condition Pokemon card collection. What can you do the next time a lard tries to initiate small talk in the bathroom? Simple, pee on his shoes from your stall. Whip out the saber, aim and fire. He'll probably be shocked for several seconds (which will give you prime time to wipe your ass), then he'll follow his gasp of anguish with a slippery attempt to rise from the toilet seat, most likely resulting in his collapse. See, the good thing about urine is that it's slippery, like most liquids on a marble (or ceramic tile) floor.
You're free from the clutches of random conversations with strangers, now what? You wait for him to emerge from the restroom by hiding behind a fat waitress, and follow him to his seat at the restaurant, or comic book store (the only two places fat people are known to frequent). He'll take his seat, and either dive back in to his burger or superman collectors edition issue. Approach his table with caution, fat people are known to become alarmed and screech at a high tone that could cause your ear drums to explode. Now, take a seat across from him and spark a random conversation about things fat people like.
Things fat people like:
1: Food
2: Comic books
3: Drive Thru
4: Large Mattresses
5: Cats
Befriend the beast, and soon you will be invited in to his lair. Once inside the man cave of this monstrous behemoth, ask if you could possibly use his bathroom. Inside of the toilet room, lift the top part of the toilet tank, bend your ass in as flexible a position as you can and shoot diarrheal missiles in to the top tank of his unsuspecting chili bowl. Now flush, and RUN. Don't wipe, there's not time! RUN! His entire house will smell like shit for weeks!
Oh wait, fat peoples houses already smell like shit. Damn, oh well.
Even with all the evidence that public bathrooms are the number one hangout for infectious diseases, gangs such as the Bloods & Crips, and serial killers like Son Of Sam, my problem is with something completely different. I hate when the person in the stall next to yours tries to spark a conversations while dropping the brown bombs. Repainting the toilet is a sacred process, and requires concentration and silence. But, there's always some fat-fuck with an agenda to tell you about his "make believe" wife, pet ferret and mint condition Pokemon card collection. What can you do the next time a lard tries to initiate small talk in the bathroom? Simple, pee on his shoes from your stall. Whip out the saber, aim and fire. He'll probably be shocked for several seconds (which will give you prime time to wipe your ass), then he'll follow his gasp of anguish with a slippery attempt to rise from the toilet seat, most likely resulting in his collapse. See, the good thing about urine is that it's slippery, like most liquids on a marble (or ceramic tile) floor.
You're free from the clutches of random conversations with strangers, now what? You wait for him to emerge from the restroom by hiding behind a fat waitress, and follow him to his seat at the restaurant, or comic book store (the only two places fat people are known to frequent). He'll take his seat, and either dive back in to his burger or superman collectors edition issue. Approach his table with caution, fat people are known to become alarmed and screech at a high tone that could cause your ear drums to explode. Now, take a seat across from him and spark a random conversation about things fat people like.
Things fat people like:
1: Food
2: Comic books
3: Drive Thru
4: Large Mattresses
5: Cats
Befriend the beast, and soon you will be invited in to his lair. Once inside the man cave of this monstrous behemoth, ask if you could possibly use his bathroom. Inside of the toilet room, lift the top part of the toilet tank, bend your ass in as flexible a position as you can and shoot diarrheal missiles in to the top tank of his unsuspecting chili bowl. Now flush, and RUN. Don't wipe, there's not time! RUN! His entire house will smell like shit for weeks!
Oh wait, fat peoples houses already smell like shit. Damn, oh well.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
I'm Into Nice Teeth... And Sex N' Stuff Too!
My philosophy has always been that when a woman feels comfortable enough to fart and burp around you, then it's time to bail. But, what do you do if she feels that comfortable from day one? Well, she's probably a real classy girl, so I suggest keepin' her around for good. Maybe slap a ring on that finger and let her carry your last name proudly as you boast a picture of her smiling in your wallet. Not. I bet her breath smells of cigarettes and shame, doesn't it? Are these the lips you want kissing your future children? Regardless of her binge drinking, promiscuity and possible (and quite likely) father issues, it's best to avoid these slags at all costs. Why you ask? Well, I can't really give specific dating advice as my last date was with a magazine article about bras and their different cup sizes, however I am an expert at pretending to be an expert, so here we are:
1: Sluts may be fun at night, but they are only worth a night of fun. Example: You bring skanky-mc-suck-a-lot to your apartment and next thing you know she has a toothbrush grazing yours in the cup that once held only your own mouth cleaning utensils. Wait, maybe germaphobia is something you weren't mentally scarred with by uncaring parents and blasphemous Jewish television... Ok, say she leaves behind a bloody string of memorabilia from her latest abominate draining. Now what? Exactly, the solution has already been avoided when you brought that wretched wench in to your humble abode.
2: Hygienic habits often reflect our true human nature. Example: You bring slutty-mc-swallow to your apartment and next thing you know she has her skid-mark stained panties hanging on your shower curtain. Maybe touching disgusting specimens of diarrheal leakage doesn't bother you? God damn you must be a disgusting son of a bitch. Anyway, if that image of the gruesome outcome of fast foot doesn't put you off, doesn't seeing her everyday get old? Don't you wish you could kick her in the ovaries and call it a day? No? Jesus, you are almost beyond repair.
3: Love is what you call the combination of lust and boredom. Example: You're getting your nob polished by a sweet, almost too delightful to be slutty (but totally is) skank in the bathroom of a TGI Fridays when you accidentally blurt out the L word. And I ain't talkin' bout 'Lollipop". What happens when she shows you what she got in da' candy shop and you love it? Well, first of all DON'T PANIC. Remain calm, and we can get through this together. Cum, zip, run. Or, "CZR" (pronounced caesar). It's that simple. Don't hesitate, procrastinate, anticipate or levitate. Cum, zip, run.
For more information on how to be a total jack-hole, and probably stay a virgin well in to your 30's (where it ultimately becomes creepy and awkward to even attempt to date a self respecting and dignity having woman), follow the instructions at the bottom of this post.
I'm Lee. But my friends call me Lee. Aren't I a colorful individual? If you'd like to bombard me with hate mail, please send a message to leecooper@1guy0job.com
1: Sluts may be fun at night, but they are only worth a night of fun. Example: You bring skanky-mc-suck-a-lot to your apartment and next thing you know she has a toothbrush grazing yours in the cup that once held only your own mouth cleaning utensils. Wait, maybe germaphobia is something you weren't mentally scarred with by uncaring parents and blasphemous Jewish television... Ok, say she leaves behind a bloody string of memorabilia from her latest abominate draining. Now what? Exactly, the solution has already been avoided when you brought that wretched wench in to your humble abode.
2: Hygienic habits often reflect our true human nature. Example: You bring slutty-mc-swallow to your apartment and next thing you know she has her skid-mark stained panties hanging on your shower curtain. Maybe touching disgusting specimens of diarrheal leakage doesn't bother you? God damn you must be a disgusting son of a bitch. Anyway, if that image of the gruesome outcome of fast foot doesn't put you off, doesn't seeing her everyday get old? Don't you wish you could kick her in the ovaries and call it a day? No? Jesus, you are almost beyond repair.
3: Love is what you call the combination of lust and boredom. Example: You're getting your nob polished by a sweet, almost too delightful to be slutty (but totally is) skank in the bathroom of a TGI Fridays when you accidentally blurt out the L word. And I ain't talkin' bout 'Lollipop". What happens when she shows you what she got in da' candy shop and you love it? Well, first of all DON'T PANIC. Remain calm, and we can get through this together. Cum, zip, run. Or, "CZR" (pronounced caesar). It's that simple. Don't hesitate, procrastinate, anticipate or levitate. Cum, zip, run.
For more information on how to be a total jack-hole, and probably stay a virgin well in to your 30's (where it ultimately becomes creepy and awkward to even attempt to date a self respecting and dignity having woman), follow the instructions at the bottom of this post.
I'm Lee. But my friends call me Lee. Aren't I a colorful individual? If you'd like to bombard me with hate mail, please send a message to leecooper@1guy0job.com
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Where I'm From, Catz Get Popped.
Tonight was:
No, seriously. I'm staring out of a barred window at some reasonably attractive community college enthusiast with a price tag on her dignity. Ten bucks, I think it was. It's not that I dislike living in a place that constantly smells like a septic tanks ass, it's just that I'd like to be able to drink a glass of tap water without the fear of led poisoning, or, you know, go out for a walk without being shanked in the streets for drug money. It's a good thing I know Martial Arts. I think he has a gun in his apartment.
The Area is:
I was at a local diner getting ready to feast on the most expensive item on their menu (the $2.99 triple cheeseburger surprise) when I came across a thick, black pubic hair. It was long, but coarse and rough. Actually, it was fairly soft for a hair from the pubic region. It had a pleasant lavender scent. Whoever it belonged to used a nice shampoo. Not the dollar brand stuff, this was like Pantene or Dove. The good stuff. Anyway, I didn't bother complaining. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a passive person, it's just that I don't like arguing with people who speak English as a fourth language and have the comprehension of a Ritalin addicted second grader.
Closing thoughts:
Also, I hate horses. I always hear people raving about how great they are. Some people even say horses are beautiful... Whats beautiful about a horse? The flies around it's face? The huge chunk of shit it leaves behind? Christopher Reeves was rendered paraplegic thanks to a horse, not to mention the nasty fucking teeth. I heard they eat horses in Holland; I wouldn't even give them the satisfaction.
No, seriously. I'm staring out of a barred window at some reasonably attractive community college enthusiast with a price tag on her dignity. Ten bucks, I think it was. It's not that I dislike living in a place that constantly smells like a septic tanks ass, it's just that I'd like to be able to drink a glass of tap water without the fear of led poisoning, or, you know, go out for a walk without being shanked in the streets for drug money. It's a good thing I know Martial Arts. I think he has a gun in his apartment.
The Area is:
I was at a local diner getting ready to feast on the most expensive item on their menu (the $2.99 triple cheeseburger surprise) when I came across a thick, black pubic hair. It was long, but coarse and rough. Actually, it was fairly soft for a hair from the pubic region. It had a pleasant lavender scent. Whoever it belonged to used a nice shampoo. Not the dollar brand stuff, this was like Pantene or Dove. The good stuff. Anyway, I didn't bother complaining. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a passive person, it's just that I don't like arguing with people who speak English as a fourth language and have the comprehension of a Ritalin addicted second grader.
Closing thoughts:
Also, I hate horses. I always hear people raving about how great they are. Some people even say horses are beautiful... Whats beautiful about a horse? The flies around it's face? The huge chunk of shit it leaves behind? Christopher Reeves was rendered paraplegic thanks to a horse, not to mention the nasty fucking teeth. I heard they eat horses in Holland; I wouldn't even give them the satisfaction.
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