WARNING: Content inappropriate for children under the age of 18

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Thursday July 1, 2010

Owgie and Elina Score at the Flyers Game 

Douche Bag Review IV: Psycho Stalkers

Since sticking obnoxious people into Institutions became illegal, stalkers have been plaguing our very existence. Best known as the sore  assholes of society, stalkers have no shame and creep up on you faster than a case of explosive diarrhea. Not the kind caused by rancid meat or bad sushi, mind you. However, just like it, all of the sudden there is a sharp pain in the ass, and before you know it, your stuck in the bathroom for the better part of your day (in this case hiding). We all know what it's like to feel as if you are in a bad horror movie. One in which Paris Hilton has a cameo and the only sucking she is doing is acting-related. However, if you haven't had a stalker at some point in your life, it is crucial to draw two conclusions from this revelation. 

1) No one likes you enough to be even be remotely interested in your existence. and 2) YOU are most likely the token stalker.

Stalking is not only a pathetic, but also a psychotic quality that in the less-severe cases can be solved by a decent vibrator, and in the most-severe cases by a rainbow of meds and a straight jacket. And simply because I have a few people in mind I'd like to nominate for the second one, is why stalkers qualify as DOUCHE BAGS. (That was written in caps lock for both dramatic effect, and so in case your staker is somewhere behind you, they can spot the insult easily.)

Now, much like public bathrooms, I have to separate the stalkers into male/female categories. Just think of it as the his/hers towel sets of stalking...if each towel was doused in the perfume of the person they have their stalking lazy eyes on. The douche and douchess of stalking have many similarities, but there are some important differences to consider as well. After much research and my own stalking incidents, I have drawn up what I hope to be an intellectually (and maybe for some of  you) sexuallystimulating review.

The Stalking Douchess:
There is a slight difference between the token clingy bitch and a female stalker. Perhaps the stalker recipe has a pinch more of nutmeg and a dash more of psychosis. See, when the clingers take the next step to stalking they have two variations. 1) they stalk men they are interested in or 2) they stalk women they feel threatened by.

In the first case the situation is quite simple. A suspicious girlfriend can be a stalker in no time. Faster than a minute man can ejaculate, she will be scanning your phone and hacking into every account you have. Douchess will have every text message in her boyfriends phone memorized so well that she can recite them with greater speed than a 3rd grader rattles the pledge of allegiance.

Tuesday March 2, 2010

Pre-Gaming for Barcelona 

Slap a passport on my tits and call me international! Soon, I will be heading to Barcelona to expand my horizons. And even though, by 'horizons' I am typically referring to 'legs', this time I see it panning out quite differently. Will I get penetrated in the lovely country of Spain? maybe involuntarily... Will I get penetrated by a bull horn after one too many pitchers of Sangria? The odds are most likely not in my favor. 

As usual I am setting the bar of expectations lower for myself than the hurdles at the Special Olympics. And although I am typically somewhat of a degenerate all around, there are certain things I expect from myself when I go on vacation. For example, not to come home carrying anything in my vagina... like illegal drugs, or a fetus. I have yet to disappoint myself by not meeting these guidelines, and I'm certainly not about to start toting shit in my coochie now. It's the one thing that must remain clear, to compensate for my conscience I suppose. 

  
I'm taking this trip with my best little pocket friend: Cheeha. Her small stature and clumsy nature is always entertaining, but does very little in the sense of my personal security. God forbid we come across any danger. I know that I'd have to be the one to protect both of our assholes...and let's be honest, since we are in a foreign country, I'd have to keep an eye out on our kidneys as well. The one thing that is of no concern to me, however, is our livers. Those can take a lashing for the whole week as per usual. The drink of choice in Spain is sangria, and I plan on sucking it down more enthusiastically than a newborn on a tit.

The rest is yet to be determined. I just hope that I stay away from those male Flamenko dancers. Their stomping around and hip shaking might just put me in a sangria induced trance. While in this trance, both the devils on my shoulders (in charge of guiding me through all of life's decisions) will most likely encourage me to join in the dance. And amidst my pathetic attempts to shake what my mama blatantly forgot to give me, I run a severe risk of Felmenko dancer spermie invasion. In which case I'd be forced to immediately sober up and abort mission...( forgive the bad choice of words). 

So good bye everyone! As usual I will come back with a hazy recollection of my adventures. But rest assured, I will bite and wrestle my way out of customs, and put the pieces of my trip together with my court appointed therapist. Then I will cuddle up with a bottle of Patron, and write all about Barcelona! The good, the bad, and the borderline orgasmic. Remember that if in a week you miss me too much, make sure to watch Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew. The alcoholics on there will put a band aid over the wound of longing for me... and well, the heroin/meth addicts are just a fucking riot as per usual. 

Thursday February 11, 2010

2010, The Year I Plan To Become Dictator Of The Whole World! (Ha...Dick-tator)

Enough with jokes about dicks the size of tater tots! This is no laughing matter. For I have much to accomplish in the next year of my life. That's right, my resolutions aren't made artificially like the assholes that crowd the gym on January 3 (because they're still too busy stuffing their faces with leftovers on the 2nd). No, my resolutions have to be bigger and better, because let's face it I spend most of my time drunk, and I could really use the extra motivation. My annual resolutions go as follows:

1) After watching "The Blind Side" with Sandra Bullock, I was incredibly moved and inspired. This movie of course opened up my eyes and showed me that before this year comes to a screeching halt, I need to adopt a large black boy! Not just any old inner city child! No, he must be exceptionally good at a sport. A real sport, not like the type of shit they allow in the Winter Olympics. Curling? If my son ends up having that much enthusiasm for brooms, he better be Harry Fucking Potter. Anything winter-like other than my beloved hockey would be unacceptable. Although, since I'm really going for the full effect of the movie, I'd have to insist he play football.

Finding someone to adopt has been quite the challenge to say the least! Coming up to randomly large black men and telling them to get in my car because I want to take them home (Like Sandy did) seems to put me in an uncomfortable position. They think they're getting laid, and I have to try and explain to them how that would be completely inappropriate now that I am their mother. That's when the topic of breast feeding arises and I am forced to abort the mission. However, I haven't given up. One day I won't be forced to abort my large black boy and he will grow to make mama proud. Unless he turns into a real McNabb-type of asshole in which case I'd have to return him, because that's just embarrassing.

2) I'd like to make enough money to start a new business venture. In addition to "The Cum N' Go" (the Nations first chain of blow job drive thrus which I discussed at an earlier date) I'd also like to open up my very own Community College. After much thought about choosing a name, I have settled on one that portrays respect and prestige: Thunder Cock Community College aka: TCCCCCCCC. Here, students will master the art of being a functionally drunk retard, without having to be legally declared retarded. All my favorites will be teaching classes. Funbags, for example, will be the professor for the "Protective Services" course. Here she will instruct her students on how to protect and destroy with a pair of tits. Beer cans, small animals, and perpitrators will not be spared at the mercy of her nips. One can save a lot of money on security systems after passing this class. All you'll need is an alarm going off through the house which asks the perp  if he wants to be hit with "the left one or the right one" Perhaps both at the same time? Mastering that type of self defense will earn you a doctorate.

Other classes will include, Advanced Drinking, Dunk Texting, Effective Chub Chasing, and so on...

3) I resolve to be get implants. Simply because I'd like to enroll in Funbag's class and become her star pupil

4) I'd like to make a grown man cry over something completely insignificant. For now I have my eyes on this big guy at the gym who's constant intake of steroids and addiction to self tanner has him looking like he's in a perpetual state of constipation. He's about half my height, so I don't find myself face to face with him often. But the one time when I was sitting and he proceeded to grunt something at me, I became fairly certain that I spotted a trace of mascara... and possibly some day old semen rimming his eyes. In his defense, I'm rather certain it's his own semen. I've heard from other men that this douche bag has a tendency to prematurely ejaculate at his own reflection while "posing" in front of the locker room mirror. It must have been a sort of  "jizz ricochet" incident.

I must say that usually these types of closet homosexuals don't bother me in the least. Their roid rage, and 'man cans' easily amuse me for hours on end. But in the case of this particular super hero (Gym Super-Douche) I have to make an exception. Simply because he has this disillusion that every living, breathing human being wants to ride that 3 incher he has peeking out of his parachute sweat pants. This horrifying visual makes me want to force him face reality and cry like a little bitch...with sound. Some verbal abuse, and a dumbbell to the face should do the trick. I'll tell you this much, if he takes one more prance through the gym in a pair of Ed Hardy, this resolution will be completed by the end of this month.

5) I have a bucket list of people I need to bone by the time I get married. "Kicking the bucket", "tying the knot" it's really all the same to me. For example 1) Someone famous... and so forth. That's really the only one I have accomplished thus far so I need to get things moving. I'd list the rest of the people on the list, but I have a feeling that it would result in me getting chased down the street by someone on a lawnmower, toting a chloroform rag. And well, that particular fantasy never made the cut (along with angry pirates, and golden showers).

6) Caesar Milan's show "The Dog Whisperer" makes me quite skeptical. Not necessarily of his ability to talk to dogs, but mostly his intentions behind it. Something tells me he has a lifetime supply of peanut butter stacked in his pantry. But speaking of balls. this year I plan on starring in my very own TV show: "The Genital Whisperer" Here I will speak to disobedient genitals and make them do shit. Like, taking out the trash and doing  the laundry. Those who are particularly well endowed will be put in place of re-shingling my roof.

7) I'm starting a nationwide outcry against men that tediously wax their eyebrows (and do other such obnoxiously bitch-like things). The eyebrow waxing is what really does me in the most. It serves as a 'gateway drug' of sorts for other fairy like activities. These include shaving your legs, sporting a man-gina, and finally, sucking cock. And although I am a grooming enthusiast, I just don't see why the eyebrows take a priority. Most recently I saw several pictures posted up by one of my least favorite Facebook friends, They mostly featured his thinly trimmed brows. I instantly thought to myself "Wow, on the bright side. if he waxes his eyebrows, that means he must head down south and wax other things as well... like his vagina."

8) This year I plan on perfecting my retard accent. It's gotten pretty good through the constant training with my mom's navigation system in her car. The text to speech feature she has, results in an automated sounding voice with a sprinkle of Down's Syndrome. I plan on escalating my skills until I am bona fide retard fluent! As fucked up as my goal may be, I must admit that it is not for the purposes of taunting, (Taunting is something i reserve for douche bags and fatties strictly) No, this is only because I'd like to use my new found skill in my future career... as a phone sex operator. Sort of like a sexy Rain Man type. Or in my case, Rain Woman. (please keep all 'squirting' jokes to yourselves).

9) I have made the commitment to get ordained this year. Mostly because I get a kick out of being put in any position of slight power. And also because my friend Jane asked me to marry her to her fiance. I agreed to this because A) The idea of being a bridesmaid multiple times makes the idea of getting mounted by Dennis Rodman sound like a pleasure cruise in comparison. and B) Their wedding will be taking place in Las Vegas! This makes me even more excited because both the bachelor and bachelorette parties will be taking place there as well. And seeing as the last time Jane and I were in sin city. we were both hypnotized to have orgasms on stage in front of a large live audience, this time should be even better! A circus freak gang bang perhaps?

All I know is that once I am at the alter, I can't wait to pronounce the following touching lines: "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to join Jane and uggh  oh shit, where the fuck is Jane? And why do I have an anal bead, and half of a black dildo stashed in my bra? Umm I'm sorry does the mother of the bride by any chance know anything about the whereabouts of her daughter...or the other half of my dildo? No, not necessarily in that order"

10) None of the aforementioned resolutions can realistically get me any closer to being the dictator of the whole wide world within this next year. However, one last thing should work like a charm. All I have to do is overthrow Oprah and claim my throne. I've decided to lure her out of her spot of authority with a trail of corn dogs and ice cream. I'll make sure the trail leads to a place no one will ever think to look for her...the gym. I'll hide her in the back of the men's locker room, where nothing surprises anyone anymore. Perhaps images of chubby old men toweling down their FUPAs will distract everyone else from the large black woman stuffing her face in the corner.

So that rounds out the highest points I'd like to hit in 2010. And I really do think it'll be to the benefit of us all if I was maybe put in charge of the whole world. Although, I should probably just start with the country... first order of business is to make casual sex Fridays mandatory for every place of business. Your welcome for my caring America.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Pressing Issues Which I Will Discuss With the Eloquence of Anderson Cooper. Part IV:

Have you ever walked by a couple and thought " Holly mother of God!" Well I seem to be doing that more often these days. For once, I can't blame this on my general dislike for most people. No, I'm referring to the token mismatched couple! In case this is still unclear, I will go further and say a couple in which one party is attractive, while the second looks like it got raped by the ugly stick. (Note, in this scenario, I mean an actual stick. Usually when I say 'ugly stick' I'm talking about a father's penis and the contents of undesirable genetics which it holds within)

Woman with Beast:
In the most common case of the mismatched couple we have the attractive woman with a man that holds about as much sex appeal as Flavor Flav's left nut. In this case, we usually have a scale. The more attractive the woman is, the greater earning potential her ass-ugly mate has. She is a trophy wife and the only bulge in his pants she's concerned about is the one created by his wallet. (This is why I could never be a trophy wife, my gaze always wanders more toward the center of his pants in search of a whole other sort of bulge). In the case of tolerating a porking session with this man: the lack of a gag reflex helped these sorts of women get ahead in life in more ways than one. Ugly men, it's not that they don't love you at all; it's just that their riding your best friend on the side.

At this point it's important to mention the married couple phenomenon. Here, upon marriage both the male and female were equally as attractive. Cut to 20 years later, one party is aging well while the other is starting to resemble a senile Marlon Brando or a modern day Kirstie Alley. The more attractive of the two feels incredibly duped, and rightfully so. While they've been busting their asses going to the gym and skipping 2 out of 3 daily meals, their spouses appear to have been spending their days snorkeling in a tub of Mayo. Well the end result is completely inevitable here. The more attractive of the two is off to hump someone half their age. An occurrence we have all heard about many times. Here " I'm picking up the kids from soccer practice" translates for women to "I'm picking up the coach from the kid's soccer practice" or for men, "I'm picking up a woman who's more than happy to fondle my soccer balls... drive the kids? didn't we get the 10 year old a bike last year?"

Man with Beast:
Next, and more uncommon, we have the very attractive man with a woman who has a nice body but a face that would give Freddy Cruger nightmares. We all know the guy who became a sucker for the bangin body of his girlfriend, but none of us can see how he can stand to suck-her-face. Furthermore, every time he speaks about porking this Mr. Ed girlfriend of his, I always have to stop myself from putting a call through to PETA. I don't think he'd appreciate my telling them about his affinity for lubricated 'horse-back riding.'  It's not always a naturally ugly face that comes into play here. Sometimes it's the botox face phenomenon. This plastic woman also falls into the popular butterface category. With aging maintenance is acceptable, but injecting your face until your range of expressions is less than a Mickey Mouse doll, is not. However, what can I say? God bless the men that do the genital handshake with these creatures, and God bless the 'Green' movement for supplying us with more paper bags than we've ever had before.

Last, we have the most exciting scenario. This one leaves me both confused and giddy. Ladies, and gentleman: we have the fucking CHUB CHASERS! Yep, I'm talking about the moderately attractive man, with a woman who's nickname is Shamu. She spends her days chasing ice cream trucks, and still doesn't get any thinner, because after the first 100 yards of her run she gets thrown off by a hot dog stand. And yet, there are perfectly normal looking men out there who are more than happy to tackle the beast, roll her in dough to find the wet spot, then proceed to do some acrobatic maneuvers in order to avoid the FUPA and penetrate properly. I imagine that this takes quite an effort. How anyone can navigate an enormous FUPA and still have a boner is mind-blowing to me. This is astonishing enough for men that have a regular build, but even more so for the extremely short and thin men. It seems that these tiny Sea World enthusiasts embrace Shamu the most. Perhaps it is just one of those bizarre fetishes. Perhaps it is a love for adventure, and the thrill one get's after facing death on a nightly basis (upon Shamu turning from her back to her side in her sleep, or getting too lazy to walk to the kitchen for a midnight snack). The awful truth is that no one really knows why a man built like a bulimic midget would want to cuddle up with a woman who can shelter a family of five between her fourth and fifth chin. No, all we can do is watch the little guy go sky diving, using his girlfriend's lace panties as a parachute, and speculate.


WARNING:
On a relevant note, I must take this opportunity to warn innocent women of the threat of the UNDER COVER CHUB CHASERS. Just the other day I almost fell victim to one at the gym of all places! These are of course men that spot a girl who's face they'd love to stick their penis in... however they also figure that this face is insufficient due to only having one chin. This is precisely when they suggestively try to fatten her up. Slowly but surely they will feed this unsuspecting victim until purchasing just one seat on an airplane becomes impossible for her to do!

This past Monday afternoon at the gym, I was innocently doing bicep curls. All of the sudden, out of the corner of my left eye I spotted the UNDER COVER CHUB CHASER. I was standing alone, and knew that it was only a matter of seconds before he would accost me.

He throws me off at first with a friendly smile and a simple "Hello"

I smile and nod back bracing myself for the inevitable. Then without skipping a beat, or slowing down he sighs heavily, rolls his eyes and exclaims "UGH EAT SOMETHING ALREADY!" Then he quickly shuffles away before I have a chance to respond.

He does this to me every couple of months now. And I fear that one day it will escalate, and I will come in and get chased by him with a Whopper in his hand. I don't know why he's trying to fatten me up, but he must be one cocky chub chaser. To be so confident in your skills of fattening women up, that you begin to hunt down victims at the gym is quite impressive. After all, I don't spend everyday doing cardio in order to get FATTER! Well, this experience was an alarming one, but now I am on to him and rest assured that his tricks will not work on me. Not on my watch UNDER COVER CHUB CHASER! Go beat off to the sight of some other bitch devouring a burger. Know that I will not hesitate to shank you with carrot sticks next time I see you approaching me.

If anything,that little run in just made me want to work out harder. I remembered the words of a friend of mine at the gym ( spoken while he was engaging in his favorite pastime of taunting fatties) and as his words resonated in my ears, I sprinted directly to the tred mill and proceeded to "run like my pants are on fire."

Friday, December 11, 2009

Can Women and Men be BFFs?! Absofukinlutley NOT

Women and men can be completely platonic best friends under one condition: If both parties share an unwavering preference for the cock.

That's right the verdict is in, ladies and gentlemen, and I'm laying down the law Judge Judy style (because no one messes with that bitch). Women and men can absolutely NOT be just really good friends.

Ladies:

Ask any guy friend of yours what he thought of you upon first meeting you. I guarantee it was something like this:
"Hi, it's nice  to meet you." (I wonder what she would look like while I do her doggy style?)

As harsh as the reality might seem to some of you, it's the absolute truth. Men are very visual creatures whose innate goal in life is to bang every attractive-looking thing in sight. And even if mounting you isn't in the forefront of their thoughts, it is certainly in the back of their heads at all times. Somewhere in between thoughts of cheese steaks and fantasy football.

The guy friend is optimistic that someday you will get drunk enough to actually let him see if his fantasy of slamming you against the head board is all he imagined it to be. Are you good in bed or do you make Paris Hilton look like she should win an AVN award by comparison? These are all pressing questions that most men ask themselves within the first 30 seconds of meeting you. Furthermore, your promises of being their bestest friend in the whole wide world is not enough to make them disregard the sexual curiosity which is consuming their head. I am of course always referring to the head that resides below the belt. Plain and simple, these men will trade being your BFF to see how you blow job skills measure up in a heartbeat.

So unless this male best friend of yours has a knack for bedazzling jeans, and shares similar boyfriend problems as you, then a friendship can simply not remain platonic. Attempts of impregnation will be made.

Men:

The 'just friends' zone is borderline pathetic. Either grow some balls and make a move, or go speak to someone who wouldn't mind waking up next to your flatulent ass every morning. If the girl you are spending all of your time with is telling you about tampons and her guy problems, the future in this relationship is looking grim for you, pal. This woman is not attracted to you in the least. She would most likely choose getting humped by the neighbor's Doberman over you any day.

So as painful as it may be for your testicles as first, I suggest cutting ties as soon as you realize you've been in the 'friend zone' a little too long. Then to soften the blow (or lack there of), go and invest in a nice clean hooker. If you pay her extra I'm sure she'll even pretend to like you. Unless you're the type to wear brightly colored Ed Hardy shirts, in which case no one will ever really like you.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Thanksgiving: List of Things I am Grateful

for...Almost

Since Thanksgiving is coming to us faster than the guy I lost my virginity to, I decided to make a list of things that I have been most grateful for this year. Had the pilgrims loosened up a bit, I feel like our lists would have resembled one another. Simply because something tells me there were quite a few gang bangs with those Native Americans. You don't just show up to a dinner party wearing nothing but a fur loin cloth and expect to walk away un-penetrated. That's a life lesson, one can only truly learn the hard way

So here's the list of things I am most grateful for. In no particular order, because that would entirely depend on my mood any given day.

1) Anything that vibrates. Except tooth brushes of course. That's just disgusting... and the worst form of multi-tasking that has ever been invented if you ask me.

2) Rick Ross. I am incredibly grateful to have this seductive creature as a role mode/imaginary bff this year. I was inspired daily by his position as the boss. And I would too like to be the boss someday... pinky rings and all. I'm hoping that next year I can compose this very list after winning a quite competitive pillow fight against my over sized chocolate Twinkie.

3) Obedient Fuck Buddies. Every now and again I come across a fuck buddy who is well educated on the field of Fuck Buddy Etiquette. They don't like to cuddle and appreciate the fact that their face is really one of the last things I'd like to wake up to in the morning. I thank them for their sensitivity to my feelings and salute them this year... and by 'salute' I of course mean 'blow.'

4) Douche Bags. I give these individuals who exude the sexual appeal of Donald Trump, a particularly hard time. They're ability to suck at life so efficiently amuses me more than a fat chick on a tred mill. They've made my life a whole lot brighter on account of their lilac Ed Hardy shirts and reflective aviator sunglasses.

5) Escorts, I mean dancers, I mean escorts. I am grateful that high-end prostitution has not completely died out. I am more grateful when I find out that the go-go dancers I see at the clubs double as prostitutes for the high paying clients. Who knew that a few hundred bucks would buy you a bottle of Goose AND a bright(blood shot)-eyed  hooker?! Selling point being that she can not only bust your nut, but can bust a move to the Michel Jackson remixes as well. Thank you Renaissance women!

6) Patron. I get a warm little tingle in my liver just thinking about it. The Patron buzz far surpasses any alcohol I have consumed thus far. It doesn't make me tired, or dizzy, not even nauseous. Patron gets me hyper, and more importantly: slutty. This flow in logic is precisely why I have decided to name my first born Pat Ron Silver. This has me in a frenzy looking to reproduce with someone with the last name of 'Silver' (and Craig's List is no longer a viable source for my search after the World Series whore ruined it for us all). God bless you Patron!

7) Big tits. Nothing helps pass the time more than motor boating a set of Funbags. I don't discriminate between real or fake...as long as each is the size of my head, I am a happy Thanksgiving camper. My friend 'Funbags' is a prime example of how powerful the big titties can be. In fact, I stopped carrying around my safety flotation device and Swiss army knife as soon as I met her.

8) Cock. More specifically Horsecocks. They're just like roller coasters. No one likes the small ones, and although the bigger ones can be scary at times, they are overall the most fun to ride. Thanks cock, you've served me well. Except for that one unfortunate minute man experience a few years ago. But starting this year, I won't hold these weak/soft links against you any longer.

9) Chubby Chasers. It's simple: the sight of a 400 pound bride with a groom that has an Ethiopian build, makes me happier than a 50 year old virgin in a whorehouse!

10) Privé Lounge in Old City, Philadelphia. Let's just say the whole place is one big mother of a facilitator in my life.the biggest 'judgment free zone' since Planet Fitness.  I've had some great nights there, most of which I can recall. Some of which I'm glad are a bit hazy. The genius of the whole place however is the layout. There is a big bar upstairs and a small bar downstairs. The only thing that separates the two is one giant staircase the size of the Octomom's vagina. To walk up and down this beast in heels is a sobering experience to say the least. This way, I get plastered upstairs, sober up on the way down, then continue boozing downstairs, and head back up. It's really just a never ending viscous sweet cycle (which i cherish).

11) Slutty college girls. I am grateful for them because no matter how cold it get's outside during the school year, they always mange to show up without their underwear on. This of course keeps my professors sexually satisfied and happy, which just results in one less person for me to blow to get ahead in life.

12) My friends/family. It's not very often that I can find a handful of people that take a liking to me, but when I do I like to hang on...and test my boundaries every chance I get. This is why I am grateful for them. Oh and also because they put out. In addition, I should of course mention my family because they support me, and DO NOT put out (on account of us not living in a red state).

13) The Silver Fox. Every now and again it's nice to talk to an attractive man who has more to talk about than keg stands and farts. This forces me to speak to people that are about twenty years older than I or so. In conclusion: I'd hit it...then take it to the early bird special at the Diner. All jokes aside, I will say it's refreshing being boned by a real man... he knows what he's doing, and I don't have to be gentle with him because he's a real mans man... therefore, I don't have to worry about breaking his hymen.

14) Cougars. Sometimes I see them at the gym, from a far. And I think to myself, " wow she's 45 years old and she has the most incredible body!" and then she turns around and I go " Damn, I'm so grateful that my face doesn't look like a wrinkly Louis Vuitton bag."

15) IPhones. I love my IPhone. It keep me in the loop of a lot of things. Most importantly,  Facebook. It's especially significant when people post pictures of their breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Simply because I get worried sick when I don't know whether my Facbook friends have been properly nourished that day. And it isn't until I see a mobile upload of a half eaten sushi roll and or a fourth of a pop tart, that I can have a good night's sleep. And pray, just PRAY that they will be kind enough to post pictures of their Pho in the morning.... so I know that I don't worry about them treating their hangover properly. It gets to be incredibly concerning! So thank you Facebook for saving me a little bit of grief!

Oh yeah also, you can totally watch porn on the IPhone...that's pretty fucking awesome.

16) Ugly lights. There comes a point at the end of the night when the magical bar comes to a sad and final close. This is final decision time. Do I go to after hours? No, I don't do drugs and there's no other way I'm staying up past 3AM. Am I going home with the guy that's been ever so gently humping my leg all night? Well that depends on the ugly lights! And as soon as those fuckers spark on, I get my answer. I say better now than in the harsh light of the morning sun....ha like I'd ever stay til morning

17) My 9 year old brother. At the tender age of nine he's outdone me. At this rate, I see him ruling a small country by the age of 12.
      Brent: He Elina, guess what I can dance like Elvis
      Me: Oh yea? How ? show me
Brent: (While doing the pelvic thrust) Just like this,  it's real easy, all you have to do is shake your ball sack.
Conclusion: I will never be able to dance like Elvis...

18) Bartenders. They can do no wrong in my eyes. These beautiful creatures serve my needs and I will forever love them and their 'craft' for as long as I live. They are the sole reason, why my parents never quite seemed to get me off the bottle. Awkward, already breastfeeding others and still not off the bottle myself.

19) Miami. What's not to be grateful for? The place is beautiful, the people are beautiful, and there's literally not a sober moment to be had. I have done plenty of outrageous things there myself. Where else could you witness a couple porking on the beach...at noon...in front of a group of senior citizens?!

20) Thanksgiving. I am grateful for the sole reason why I am writing this list. Sure it's lamer than Christmas and New Years, but there is one very special reason why i am grateful for this very holiday: TURKEY! Not the ones your mother shoves into the oven for a few hours while everyone else is watching the game, not even the country (which I had the unfortunate experience of visiting and will NEVER be grateful for). No, this wonderful word actually has 3 definitions. 'Turkey' can also mean women that enjoy a good 'stuffing!' ...GUILTY! Ahh you gotta love the holidays,

Happy Holidays everyone! Remember to eat, drink, and be safe: as in beating that creepy uncle off with a bat before you pass out in front of the TV. Silver Fox or not, that shit's not right.

It's time to take a stance against the saying "being between a rock and a hard place." There's really no need for fancy lines when you find yourself caught between the two. It's called a gang bang. Either way you're fucked.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Extremely Butch Lesbians...WTF?: Revisited!

Forgive me Rosie O'Donnell, dictator of all things homosexual; but I just can’t wrap my pretty little head around this concept. Isn't the whole point of becoming a lesbian, to be with another human being who displays extremely feminine qualities? As in girls who like other girls. Wasn't that the whole point of investing in that dual dildo to begin with?  Last time I checked, a person draped in lumberjack apparel, sporting a mullet, and hanging out in aisle 8 of The Home Depot; is usually named Earl. Not even close to resembling a female of any sort! Sporting Earl's style for a woman makes you one stinky ball sack away from being a full fledged male as far as I’m concerned.

Therefore, I had to draw some deep conclusions as a result of my string of unanswered questions. What made two completely butch women give up the glorious cock? Well, I've come to the realization that you can't possibly need to be weened off of something you were never on. I do mean that literally in this case. It seems to me, that butch lesbian couples are simply made up of two ugly chicks who could never get laid by a guy. And as a result had to scissor each other in college just to get off. Moreover, even after the college days are over, the two um 'women' are sort of stuck together for life. This is on account of the rest of the human population's need of a flag pole to even consider fucking them. Eventually however, a very romantic relationship blossoms between the two Bob Villa look-a-likes. Butch and Butcher live happily ever after conjoined at the FUPA in their DIY home. And even though I still DON'T get it, I must admit that their activity of 'caulking' things around the house, although worlds away from my idea of the action, is quite heartwarming nonetheless.

I'd love to give you all a more detailed version of my theory but there's only so much research I'm willing to do in this mullet infested field. Even I draw the line somewhere as far as my investigative journalism is concerned. And that of course includes venturing into prisons to observe these butch types up close. I am not up for becoming Bertha's lovely bitch; and don't wish to consummate our relationship with broom rape. So I'm just going to stick with the belief I previously stated; and support these questionable looking women in their decisions to join hot pockets.

All douche bags are like Halloween candy. They come in every single size and flavor imaginable. I personally prefer the fruity kind.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Douche Bag Review Part III

GYM JACKASS

My gym time is probably the happiest hour of my day (refined Patron tastings and/or fucky fucky time excluded). I love to take an hour or so to myself to focus on burning off the calories that accumulate because of my drinking habits. That's really the only goal of my hours battling the elliptical, because I'm not a health freak by any means. So during this 'me time' you can only imagine the disgust I feel once I am forced to come across the token 'Gym Jackass.' I am absolutely not referring to the many guys I end up speaking to at the gym which may be jacked, but still sweet as can be. No, we all know the token douche bag. Which no one really ever wants to talk to. The image of him in his stretched out Hulk Hogan wife-beater hits me harder than a pair of balls. However, upon further investigation, conducted by the pec machine, I've noticed that even these douche bags have sub divisions.

1) The first type of Gym Jackass was never the high-school jock who 'tackled' half of the cheerleading squad and possibly even the hot English teacher. Nope, back in high school this was the nerdy guy who spent his afternoons playing Dungeons and Dragons; and making fun of poorly written math problems. He was built like Mary Kate Olsen in his youth, and now he's trying to show everyone that he can finally develop a muscle. Because he's convinced that his graduating class all still really cares. (Note: I suspect that excessive muscle in this breed of douche is developed in compensation for the facial hair he is still unable to grow)

Unfortunately, however the douche's geeky side is still very much alive. This Gym Jackass will try and impress you with his health-freak ways and offer up advice you never asked for. A year back or so, I was forced to sit through his impromptu seminar next to the exercise bike.

Douche : " Yeah you know what I really recommend: I've been trying to eat every two hours now. Like a handful of almonds. You should look into trying that"

Me: "Yeah, you know the thing is, I've tried to do a mouthful of nuts every two hours before. It really didn't do much to settle my appetite, but I did make lots of new friends."

2) Secondly, we of course have the token dumb jock that never grew out of it. He thinks lifting hundreds of pounds can still compensate for the fact that he has yet to lift a book in his life. The only thing he's been reading is the back of the Muscle Milk container before he makes his protein shake every morning. The only protein shake I would consider beneficial that early in the AM, better have the morning after pill sprinkled in it. Add some vodka. That way I can even re-name it: The Proteini

Typically, while this Beefcake is going about his usual workout he's enamored with his own reflection in the mirror. Sometimes. he gazes over his body as if the mirror was a portal into Megan Fox's vagina. Checking out every single muscle isn't exactly hard to do either, as he insists on wearing a very awkwardly stretched out wife beater. You know, the type in which the straps hardly cover his perpetually hard nipples. His eyeing of himself screams "I'd fuck me." It really is disturbing too see a grown man prance around the gym like a teenage girl who just got her tits.

The only thing that distracts the Beefcake from his own pecs, is the sight of a female doing anything remotely sexual looking. I especially don't appreciate it when I take a break from a set of crunches to take a few gulps from my bottled water to see this dickhead starring at me. He keeps eying me as if it was my dirty little idea to suggestively stay hydrated during my workout. From this moment on, it's crucial to avoid making eye contact. If you do, he'll quickly rush over an offer to help you stretch. Considering there is only part of my body he's actually interested in, I strongly reject the stretching offer. Hands off douche bag, I have no desire to resemble the Octomom. The key to escaping them is by gently insulting the chicken legs he is most likely hiding under those baggy sweats; then running in a zig zag pattern away from him before his roid rage takes the best of him. I lost my IPOD once during a sprint like this; it's no laughing matter.

3) Lastly we have my absolute favorite type of Gym Jackass: The Rich Silver Fox! These fifty something men are going though the infamous mid-life crisis. Stage one of which includes buying a sports car; and stage two 'getting back into the shape of their lives.' Sadly enough the ball sack never really bounces back.

Douche: "Hey sweetheart, I'm old enough to be your daddy"

Me: "Well yeah I know, but I can still call you daddy!"

The other wonderful thing about this buff silver fox is that his pick-up lines range in entertainment value; based on the degree of his early onset of dementia. Most recently, while I was mid crunch, I have gotten this:

Douche: "Wow, has anyone ever told you that you look like a movie star?!"

Me: "Uhh um no, no I don't think so, no, definitely not under these conditions. No"

I'm sure a simple 'thank you' would have sufficed, but I was so perplexed. It took me a good five minutes to figure out what movie star could possibly resemble my mid-work out appearance. I finally settled at a startled looking Jim Bellucci.

4) Lastly, we have the holistic fuckers. I don't have a HUGE problem with them and their yoga mats; but every now and then they do annoy me. I would kindly point out to them, on occasion, that they are in fact on the bicep machine and perhaps getting in the downward dog position on it is not the smartest move. They don't care about my somewhat snappy remarks. They are flexible enough to blow themselves; doubt they're in the market for any more friends.

Well of course the gym isn't always a complete sausage fest. And although many times it really is just a bunch of guys taking entirely too much time in between sets to eye each others balls; the occasional woman gets in the mix. I don't typically notice them, since they share my same type of genitalia; but in some cases completely ridiculous looking bitches catch my eye. And then make me want to pour bleach in it.

1) The first type of female douche bag, I like to refer to as Butch Betty. This is simply because she can win an arm wrestling match with 99% of the WWF. I try to avoid this beast because I can see that she can easily snap my neck between her ass cheeks. I'm not ashamed to admit that butch women scare the shit out of me more than any horror movie you can muster up. This initially, irrational fear most likely stemmed from Rosie O'Donnell. But it has slowly progressed as I have worked out along side of women who bench pressed twice my body weight. As much as I try to stay out of their line of vision, I would never be apposed to running into one in the locker room.  That way I can finally settle the pre-op/post-op debate in my head once and for all.

2) Secondly, we have the douche bags who seem to go to the Salon before gearing up for their 'work out.' We all know the type. Their hair is blown out to perfection, make-up slabbed on by the pound, and slutty clothing strategically stretched over each ass cheek. In most cases these women are not only over the hill; they are rolling off the fucking hill, clinging to their plastic surgeon on the way down. Their faces are virgin-tight, and botox filled. The only thing they really have going for them is usually (not always) their bodies.

I applaud them for keeping their bodies looking right, although sometimes it can be a bit deceiving. An optical illusion of sorts. Fellow gym goers see something attractive from a distance. They zero in on the ass, g string hiked up to its regular positioning below the bra clasp. Arousal and intrigue set in and BAM! The bitch turns around and something resembling Joan Rivers is suddenly smiling back in the innocent bystander's  direction. I've seen many people fall off the tred mill due to this horrific experience. It makes the gym a rather dangerous environment, which I think should be prevented. Perhaps make there douche bag queens paste a warning sign of sorts on those faux snake skin spandex pants of theirs. "WARNING: GOOD FROM FAR, BUT FAR FROM GOOD." Someone should tell them to go shopping for their gym clothes somewhere other than the Stripper Depot.

3) I promised myself that I wouldn't discuss this last type of female jackass until my issues are resolved. But the horrors I have witnessed must be shared with the rest of the world. I must warn you all of the one place in the gym you must avoid at a certain time of the day. Don't thank me. Just spread the word to your friends, neighborhood hookers, family members, children, and even drug dealers.

My story starts as I enter the double doors of the gym. I give them my card to scan just like every other day. I don't notice that I am a mere five minutes late this morning as I naivly march to the locker room. On the way I catch a glimpse of the pool out of the corner of my left eye. The view of a single swimming cap floating in the pool instantly triggers terror. I panic because I know what this means: The Senior Women's Swimming Aerobics Class just let out; and I need to hit the locker room before they decide to hit the showers. I try and find a way to go around the dungeon, and at this point changing into my gym clothes in the main room is starting to sound like a good idea. Unfortunately, I had to decide against it seeing as I foolishly forgot my rape whistle in the glove compartment of my car, and I suspect desperately needing it when bending over to pull my pants up. So I realize I just have to suck it up, and I dart into the locker room faster than a Nigerian Gold Medalist.

WARNING: The scenes to follow are not appropriate for any audience. The ocean of senior citizen FUPA I had to battle in order to make it to my locker, can only be outdone by a gory scene out  in a SAW movie. I tried my very best to look down while I was walking; but they make it like an obstacle course of saggy tits for me. I tried desperately not to step on any boobs, and finally made it to my safe haven a.k.a: locker. Minutes later, I run out of there; my IPOD shoved between my tits and my hair tousled as if I just had a nooner in my backseat. I look down at my sweat pants, which I managed to put on backwards in the midst of the commotion: upon this observation I take a moment and briefly thank God that I never caught on to the trend of buying sweats that say 'Juicy' on the ass. Obviously that non verbal message would have caused further disaster.

Perhaps these women are old enough to be my great great grandmother's mother; but they ARE  gym jackass nonetheless. They have earned the title by frolicking though the locker room in their 'vintage' Birthday suits...circa 1899.

In most cases, the different kinds of Gym Jackasses do very little to improve my overall already grim disposition. I honestly try to avoid conversation with them at all costs by sporting my headphones at all times...sometimes they're not even plugged into anything.

Monday, September 21. 2009
Pressing Issues Which I Will Discuss With the Eloquence of Anderson Cooper. Part III

COUGARS:

At some point, banging a person of your own generation lost its appeal. I would venture it was most likely around the time modern medicine made great strides in the plastic surgery field. As a result, we now have porking that transcends through all different age groups. If I had to sum this movement up in one Hallmark Card, it would go something like: 'Shit, even nana is getting hers.'

Because of this bizarre, yet fascinating phenomenon we are left with a very special breed of woman: The Cougar. I have been studying this creature in a habitat she must thrive in, in order to maintain her craft: the gym. Aside from bars and lounges, this is a place where you will find these fuckers on their downtime. As in, when they are not looking for young boys to devour. Now I know this all sounds well and good to the obnoxiously horny crowd. An older and incredibly attractive woman wants to fuck your brains out of your head and onto the headboard; most guys are up for the challenge. Hell, I've even considered getting pounded by a silver fox myself. But there are a few warning signs you must be aware of so you don't get in over your genitals.

Pros of engaging in a genital embrace with a COUGAR

1) One word: EXPERIENCE! Know that a seasoned cougar will know her way around your junk. She'll navigate your shit like a treasure map. I of course use the term 'treasure' here quite loosely. Keep in mind that she's seen more dick in her lifetime than a guy serving a life sentence in a maximum security prison. So no matter whether your hiding a jack hammer in your pants, or if it's in fact a little 4 incher your concealing; she can get the job done. She's serviced more men than the local gas station and it's your turn at the pump baby. (Just make sure you state cash or credit before you fill her up).

2) She wants it...badly. A woman reaches her sexual peak at the age of 40. And to be honest men around that age have more problems delivering than the stoner working for Pizza Hut. They may have what it takes, but they're only really able to work so hard because they reach their sexual peak at the ripe old age of 18! Aint that some shit?! Well it is indeed. So here you have it: a hot cougar, and she's craving a dick that will work efficiently. And even maybe put in overtime when needed.

3) There's really no wooing to be done. I mean you still have to be playful and charming, but don't expect to have to wine and dine her too much to get your Cougar to put out. One Margarita at Fridays and her ankles will be hooked to her hoop earrings within minutes. It gets a little awkward for the bartender at this point but you slip him a tip, and he will keep his eyes averted as you guide her our the front door... while carefully trying not to drop her by balancing her on your dick. For those of you who are truly blessed, no hands necessary.

4) You don't have to worry about getting her pregnant. Now, before you argue hear me out. It's not that she can't get pregnant, her eggs are yet to pass expiration date. Just because they won't make the brightest omelet... I mean kid, doesn't mean it's impossible. But you can be damn sure that if the Cougar says she's on birth control, she's taking those pills like clockwork. The last thing she needs to balance with her already busy life, and kids that might be slightly older than you in age, is another fucking kid. As fond as she may be of you below the waste, she does not want some pimply ass intern to father her next child. In addition, she also refuses to let those long spent hours at the gym sucking off her trainer go to waste. Those were some serious squats she did over his dick, and mothering your child is not worth making all that work good for nothing within a matter of months.

5) Lastly, this cougar has something to prove! Not necessarily to you, or the rest of your softball team for that matter. She has something to prove to herself. Some sort of inner validation that tells her she can still ride a dick with the best of them at 40. Yes, the Cougar is on a mission to prove that she's still hotter and more flexible than the other moms in the PTA. She's here to relive her glory days on the tip of your iceberg.Go with it. Even if she happens to scream out "Yeah Bobby give it to me, see this is why you should have taken me to prom over Tracy Clark." Just let her have her throw back moment. Pay no attention to the fact that your name is not Bobby; and more importantly, thank Tracy Clark for not being a whore.

Cons of engaging in a genital embrace with a Cougar.

1) Her husband. Given, that she is not separated or divorced; you may just have to make a new 'friend.' Make sure he does not have a gun. If he does, learn how to run fast...and preferably in a zig-zag like motion.

2) The kiddies! Make sure that under no circumstances do those kids of hers find out that there is a guy, that is old enough to be in their graduating class, putting a smile on their mothers face everyday.( Among other things). See because it's really only the teenagers that will give you a problem. Last thing you need is the little pot head punk getting all hormonal on you, and kicking your ass on the front lawn. And if it's a teenage daughter, well, I certainly hope you make sure she's 18 before you entertain any further thoughts!

3) Vagina. After a certain number of kids, and a decent amount of mileage over the years, it's not what it used to be in it's glory(hole) days. One could only hope that the cougar keeps up with her kegels as strictly as she does with the rest of her workout regime. But in most cases, make sure not to be surprised if it ends up being like throwing a pencil down a well.

4) Read carefully, this is perhaps the most important warning of all. In some cases, you will run across a serious CLINGER ALERT with these women. Worst of all it will completely blindside you. It's been known to happen, when a cougar starts out just wanting to fuck, and then goes completely bat-shit crazy on your ass. Well, this is where it goes terribly wrong: When you start fucking a cougar more than the standard, once a week, she gets a little taste of what it would be like to have you around more often. To fuck, to show off to her book club, and well just a sort of self validation. Once they decide  you are what they want, they will stop at absolutely nothing to get you to feel the same fucking way. At this point you have very little choice, and I can only suggest scoping out your options in a witness protection-like program.

So in the end, a cougar can be compared to fine wine... better with age, but too much of a good thing will earn you nausea and a headache. (As long as it's not herpes).

There are two types of people in this world: those who like to get wined and dined; and those who like to get paid and laid. But since life is a lot of give and take, I suggest we all get wined and laid.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Jobs I'd Suck Harder At Than A Hoover: Part I

Teaching:

It's quite obvious that I have very little business shaping young minds; mostly because I'm still shaping my own. The goal being that by 30 it resembles a penis shape of sorts

The fact remains, however, that I did work with kids several years back as a martial arts instructor. I call these two blissful years: natural birth control.

My experience teaching them wasn't all that bad. Truth be told, when I was not horribly hungover, I found some of them mildly amusing. Eventually, however, I realized that although kids can be cute sometimes; generally, I don't really like most of them. Most, not all. I am, however, saying that almost all can be real assholes. Furthermore, if I'm being completely honest, I'd have to say the blame goes directly on the parents. Hear me out on this one...

Its not your God awful parenting itself that turned your child into the bain of everyone's existence; its the fact that the 'annoying prick' gene is apparently dominant. All of it is actually quite simple if you take a moment to think of all the adults you know that are complete jackasses. Right away I can think of 30 just off the top of my head. Now consider this, with all those jackasses mating at an unnecessarily rapid rate...whoever thought their spawn would result in a tolerable human being? That's right, its nearly impossible. Just wait and see what John and Kate's 8 turn into. A gang of douche bags equipped with retarded hairstyles and Ed Hardy t-shirts. Makes me nauseous just thinking about it.

So when I was pondering a career in teaching a few years ago, I came to the stark realization that I'd just be the biggest bitch. Way worse than any menopausal whore they show you on daytime television. I'd be especially abrasive on days that I come in irritated, or sick, or high; and they are giving me all their bullshit.

And you know there's always one kid in every elementary school classroom named Jonah, who feels it is his duity in life to test the teacher's moral character. By that I mean see if the teacher can resist the urge of chasing him around the room with a baseball bat.

The type of kid that would be a great hit on 'Kids Say the Darndest Things' but is simply not cute enough to pull of half the shit he spews. Inevitably he would ask questions like...

"Miss Elina! Miss Elina! Why aren't you married?"

And although I'd always like to shoot back with a 'Why don't you mind your own fucking business Jonah. You don't see me asking you personal questions about that castle you've been constructing out of your own boogers since October!!!' I don't. No, I try and exhibit some form of self control and squeeze out an answer resembling...

"Well Jonah, not everyone wants to get married."

Just after a feeling of deep satisfaction sets in, for not going off on the little bastard, he always has to have a follow-up. Fucking little Connie Chung in training.

"No, because um my mom said that only ugly girls don't get married." Or something as equally offensive as that. At this point in time is when I would see myself losing all desire to maintain my teaching license. My anger toward the little daemon child's mother would become misplaced, and I'd very calmly answer him.

"Well Jonah, actually, that's because your mother is a whore."

"She is not a whore!"

"She is to Jonah! She is to! Just ask Mr. Bryant the gym teacher!"

"What? Mr. Bryant" (Tears start forming when they see that you have won).

"Sorry Jonah, I really hate to break this to you on your 7th birthday like this, but we all have to find out sometime."

Then once I showed the obnoxious leader of the pack who's boss, I'd make sure every last one of the rest of the fuckers know not to mess with me on Fridays. After all, its right after Thirsty Thursdays, that's just blatantly disrespectful.

"If anyone else has anymore stupid questions, we're having one long conversation about Santa following recess. Right after we read the results confirming the identity Jonah's daddy."

This scenario is precisely why I don't see myself in a Grade school setting if I were to become a teacher. Stuffing Jonah into a locker would quickly lose its appeal and I would become incredibly bored.(On a related note: Don't judge me, I would only rough him up a little, never even dream of taking his lunch money. His mother sucked entirely too much cock for that cash).

If I had to teach, I'd most likely teach at the high school level. I am completely aware of the fact that by this age all of the kids are already drinking and getting high; so I'm thinking right off the bat we'd have something in common. And although that's all well and good, especially if one of my regular suppliers is away on business; I'd still take every single chance I get to fuck with them. Because, well ultimately. I don't see myself taking a liking to this pimply-ass group of kids either.

I especially despise those compulsive honors kids. The over-achievers that are so concerned about getting into college, that they will go to any lengths for an A. Inevitably, asking stupid questions along the way like,"So what's going to be on the test on Thursday?" Forcing me to look this girl Tracy in the eye, while squinting to avoid the glare coming off of her braces, and think of a way to answer her without making her cry...again. The point being that even if I knew what was on the fucking test I certainly wouldn't tell her. Not to mention, I'd just have the teacher across the hall make them all up for me. Amazing what a faculty dining room blow job can get you.

But this Tracy type does not let up. She's constantly running circles around you to see what she can do to get extra credit. Eventually, I'd see myself taking her up on her offer. Since she is very smart and more responsible than I; I'd put her in charge of making sure I take my birth control pills daily. That way she can do something that will benefit us both. Everybody wins. I would gladly pitch the idea, but her breed of high schoolers is so uptight that she would never agree to it. Forcing my frustration with her to mount until it reaches boiling point. Then I'd have to sit her down.

"You know what Tracy McBracy (my clever nickname inspired by the beastly metal in her mouth), you should really look into getting laid more often. I sincerely think it will make us all dislike you less."

Truth be told, I really do feel like the slutty girls in high school are easier to get a long with. They don't ask what's on the test because they don't care about the fucking test. The sluts use their text books to shove between the headboard and the wall. This way their fathers can't hear how 'daddy's little girl' is turning into 'daddy's little whore' with the assistance of the entire football team.

Girls like Tracy don't see the beauty in this. They are most likely saving their virginity for that 'special someone.' Ugh. Nice sentiment I guess, we all held onto our virginity at one point or another in our lives. Some people still do; just saving up for the next clean looking hooker that crosses their path. But what I'd really like to tell girls like Tracy is that the first time is hardly ever worth waiting for. It's not special in the least! Unless you consider wrestling Ira Goldman's little penis inside of you special. I don't. Sounds rather horrifying to me. Better lose it to someone who knows what he's doing. And if that person just so happens to be the new gym teacher, well then so be it. I hear he's getting sick and tired of Jonah's mother anyhow.

So after pondering these various teaching scenarios, I've realized that not only should I never become a teacher; but perhaps staying within 500 feet of any school would be for the best. They sell shitty weed there anyways.

As a seasoned driver, one learns that when the choice is between front seat airbags and back seat funbags; safety must always come second

Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Douche Bag Review Part II

The Instant Message Moron

Guys.

We all know a  guy who abuses the privilege of instant messaging like a lethargic hooker. This marks a fairly new breed of douche bags that find pleasure in annoying the shit out of women through the use of modern technology. Whether it's AIM, or my personal favorite: Facebook; these IM morons harass women whenever they like while in the comfort of their mother's homes. This making them yet another flavor of DOUCHE BAG!

Perhaps the most cock-sucking fact about these douche bags, is the fact that because they are not speaking to you face to face; suddenly their balls nearly triples in size. A seemingly innocent conversation evolves from something that appears to be ripped out from the pages of a cheesy romance novel; to finally something resembling an interview with Howard Stern. Often the transition happens so quickly that you're totally caught off guard. This results in completely missing the point at which the banter transforms from the super douche simply inquiring about your day, to him blowing a load all over his Dungeons and Dragons inspired mouse pad.

Moreover, because bull shitting is a hobby of these douche bags they have yet to master in the least; lies they blurt about their own sexual capabilities are about as believable as Lindsey Lohan's sobriety. Recently, I had a quite alarming conversation with this sort of IM moron through Facebook chat. Before I get into it, I would like to address those people who are most likely thinking at this point, "Well why didn't you just ignore him then?" A logical question, I must admit.Well, after much thought I concluded the answer to be a lot simpler than many may think it to be... Because I am an asshole.

The conversation began with the typical boring question. "How was your day?" I begrudgingly told him that my day went "okay." Just like it was okay yesterday, and shockingly even the day before that.

(While flooding these douches with my one word responses; I'm all the while thinking that I'd be more inclined to share the interesting low-points/high-lights  of my day with the Dr. Phil wanna-be on the local radio station. At least then I'd have a chance to win tickets to the Bucks County River Country; located not too far from my house. A place I consistently feel on the same page with because their slogan is "Where we love to see you wet!" That makes the two of us Bucks County River Country! I hope you can deliver, and are not just a huge twat tease).

After the initial question, just as unexpectedly as sleeping with a premature ejaculator the first (and always only) time; the conversation took the aforementioned down-turn. Super Douche decided to woo me:

Super Douche: " So you know baby I can last for hours in bed. At LEAST four ;)"

Me: " Oh yeah? You sure you're doing it right?"

Super Douche: "Lol if you climaxing 4 times is doing it right, then yes I think I am. You'd love four hours of sex."

Me: "Well, I beg to differ on account of me not possessing an iron vag"

Super Douche: " I've never had any complaints. My last girlfriend loved it. I once lasted 8 hours with her."

Me: " Wow, I'll give it to you, sounds like a fucking problem. The hotline says to call 911 for erections lasting more than 4 hours..."

Super Douche: " Haha very funny! Are you kidding me?! 8 hours of sex straight you'd fall in love with me!"

Me: " Doubtful. I'm pretty sure I reserve the right to put a call in to The Special Victims Unit after hour 3. Let alone 8."

Super Douche: "lmao! Don't' worry you'll like it baby. I'll tell you what else I'm going to do to you..."

Me: (after an alarming gag reflex to his previous statement) "Unfortunately that's a no-can-do seeing as I am saving myself for my soul mate: Rick Ross."

(I've mentioned in an earlier posting that Rick Ross is go-to guy to put an end to any conversation that must immediately conclude for the sake of my sanity).

It is in this nature that I try to grapple with the Super Douche. Some are extremely receptive to my ways; while others are about as sharp as plastic spoon, and never catch on to the final message. But regardless the battle must be fought everyday by women all over the world. One can only hope that the fine day will come when the mother's of the super douches come along and take away their internet privileges. Forcing them to pleasure themselves to the Sears catalog they have stashed under their mattresses.

Ladies.

I always insist on turning the tables on the opposite gender as well. We are all well aware of the fact that if women said sexually explicit things to men over the internet without warning, in order to get laid; straight guys would kick off their very own parade. But unfortunately, this is not the case. Does this make women unsusceptible to the IM moron virus? No my friends, it does not.

The condition just appears to have completely different symptoms when it surfaces in the female race. You'll see this often result in a characteristic I have spent a lifetime warning people about: CLINGYNESS! Yes, I am talking about the clingy bitches on the internet! The chicks that just don't seem to get a clue that you have more interest in holding a conversation with your great-grandmother about adult diaper brands, over even the shortest exchange with them.

When clingy bitches assault other women via the internet; there's really very little we can do. Like it or not we're stuck being bombarded with comments (or email after email) of a detailed description of her boyfriends sleeping habits and her puppies diarrhea. (or vice versa). Try as we may, as women, we are stuck. So unless you want to tell this asshole-itch of a human being to fuck off; the situation is helpless. (Note: in most cases telling them to fuck off is ineffective because it will only result in them spending another three hours describing to you how you hurt their feelings. While you anxiously attempt to text a suicide hotline while they ramble).

Men, these clingers are your worst nightmare. Especially the ones you either have porked, or considered porking. They take every chance they get to say something when you appear online, or post something new on Facebook. And not only are these comments incessant; they are also completely MORONIC. Usually sprinkled with a half a dozen 'lol's and a barrage of smiley/winky faces.

Although you pride yourself by practicing safe sex most of the time; you somehow feel like you just acquired a hefty case of herpes which will never go away. And what do all men do? They make the initial amateur mistake of pulling away. Men react by becoming colder and more abrupt with these grade A clingers. The reaction that follows is overwhelming because the already clingy bitch goes into PANIC MODE! She accelerates the comments and IMs, until a guy can't go a whole 10 seconds without his BlackBerry  vibrating harder than my special 'Rabbit' friend.

Well listen up gentlemen! I'm here to unleash the secret. There is only one thing that will make the clingiest of bitches never speak to you again. And I don't mean performing the 'Angry Pirate' or 'Dirty Sanchez' on her. God only knows what someone like tha is into.

The key is, instead of becoming more distant (which fails like a dumb slut in Honors Calculus), do a 180 and become a huge menopausal woman! Take the moodiest female you have ever met in your life and mimic her as if your trying to win a fucking Golden Globe. Alternate from being overly-emotional and possessive, to completely bitchy and pouty. If you can master the transition to take place at least a few times a day; the clingy bitch herself will want nothing more to do with you by the end of week one. Guaranteed. In fact, she will most likely deem you the clinger in the end, and convince herself that it was her idea to cool things off between the two of you.

This skill is intricate and takes many years to master. However, if you do, you officially reach sensei status of clingy bitches. A title I've held a black belt (equipped with a taser attachment) in, for days now.

Or you can always just sleep with her sister. Either one should do the trick.

It is important to pay homage to the fine alcohol enthusiast who invented the Mimosa. Allowing people all over the world to booze before noon; all the while consuming a healthy dose of vitamin C.
Cheers to you kind sir.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Pressing Issues Which I Will Discuss With the Eloquence of Anderson Cooper. Part II

Inter-Community Banging:

"Old pussy." Okay, I know the initial statement is enough to turn even the fattest fuck into an involuntary bulimic. But stick with me for a minute because I am not referring to a pet name I devoted to Joan Rivers. Rather, this is a term a guy friend of mine used when expressing his dismay in his mission to get laid as of late. Although, he is consistently exposed to a variety of drunk bitches... they seem to be the same ones every single night. They're essentially completely over-used goods; and chances are even if you've never slept with them you've most likely seen them naked at one point or another regardless.Hence, the God awful yet appropriate term of 'old pussy.' This occurs for him because his line of work forces him to stay in a very specific community of people. Therefore he is hardly ever exposed to females that possess all the qualities listed below:

1) A girl he hasn't already fucked
2) A girl who does not have a big mouth and is not friends with someone he's already fucked
3) One who is not currently fucking one of his 'boys'
4) One he'd gladly fuck without the assistance of a 10 foot poll. And finally,
5) A girl who's STD test results are cleaner than the Jonas brother's urine samples.

This conversation got me thinking about how complicated inter-community fucking can potentially get. It's like a whole communal gang bang phenomenon.

Those who live in or around the city of Philadelphia are especially aware of the 'small-community' dilemma. For it seems that every time you go out; you meet people who are most likely friends with others you already know. Before the formal introduction occurs, you have already heard enough about them that the handshake itself becomes a simple and at times offensive formality.

You of course say: "Hi ____ . It's nice to meet you" All the while you're thinking:

"Hi____.So I hear you're the cum dumpster who collects more facials than the local day spa."

Or when meeting a guy:" Hey____. So you're the guy with the dwarfed dick which curves slightly to the left, and experiences the occasional failure to launch,"

You know everything about everyone before actually meeting the person. It's not always a bad thing. Sometimes you have the distinct honor of meeting the sole reason behind ten of your closest friend's prescriptions for Valtrex.I guess, better known to some, as "Patient Zero" or as I like to call it "Ho-Monkey Zero" Twisted, but truly inevitable when you participate in the block party orgy. 

It's one big incestual circle, and it poses quite the problem when you are in need of a good, clean porking. How am I supposed to fuck a random guy no strings attached if I know his dick was previously in the mouth of the chick standing across from me at the bar? A chick that is by no means a complete stranger. For I know of her, her reputation, and pretty much everything else about her short of her social security number. Based on this prior knowledge, I'm fairly certain that I would think twice before sharing a straw with her let alone a cock. And although you never truly know who's been in who's mouth...sometimes  ignorance is bliss.

Therefore, fucking outside of your general circle of friends and community is the key to avoiding a slew of awkward moments and drama. Perhaps the last thing I want is someone's psycho ex-girlfriend going bat-shit crazy on me for sleeping with her 'man.' She claims him as her territory because she once loved him despite the fact that he was a huge dick to her. And, well, I just want to 'love' him solely for the fact that he has a huge dick. Yet, when I try and explain this nuance to her it seems to only enrage her further, often causing her to foam at the mouth.

Despite my best efforts, she stays by her ownership as if she was a dog peeing around him to mark her territory. Which is absurd, because had he ever expressed his interest in 'golden showers' I would have flung myself out of his bedroom window and ran for the hills before my bladder was forced to participate in foreplay. So now, not only does the whole community know every single detail of your personal life and sexual preferences which may or may not include gagging; you now also have a rabid ex 'inconspicuously' circling your neighborhood who you would love to gag. This reigns true for both males and females. Fucking around in a tight knit group of friends or community is hardly worth the drama in the end. Unless of course it is all resolved in a civil and mature manner: Springer.

Guys,on many occasions it just saves everyone  a lot of time if you go and get your dick sucked elsewhere. Don't feel overwhelemed heading into uncharted territory. There's no need to leave the tri-state area, or turn to Craig's List for your search. It is possible to find a brand spanking new hook-up; because luckily for you, the world is sprinkled with a plethora of drunk and generous whores. Chances are if you haven't been laid in a while, you can spot one from a mile away. Just follow the scent of cheap booze and Doritos. They'll most likely be the ones bent over a bar stool while attempting to slurp their spilled alcohol out of their cleavage; just waiting to substitute the next shot of Jack Daniels with a shot to the face. At this point your job is simple: A) Make sure she's not 16. B) Swiftly step in at this opportune moment as the stand-in 'bartender.' And finally C) Haul ass home before she sobers up and the pang of disappointment, resulting from your 1.5 minute performance time, sets in.

(An all too familiar pang all women have experienced at one point in their lives. Sadly, myself included a long, long time ago.

"Ohh, yesss, oooo, harder!... uhhhh what? Are you fuckin kidding me?!"

After months of therapy following my assault by Speedy Semen Gonzales I was even able to pin point the emotion that stands in between the initial shock and then the consequential deep disappointment. You just look up at him and you feel completely: left out.Someone just had a party in your very own 'fortune cookie,' yet your invitation was apparently lost in the mail).  

On to the ladies. If you're having a problem venturing out of the community and finding an appealing stranger to engage in the genital handshake with you;it may be time to re-evaluate some things. I say this because many men's list of standards start with a pussy and top off with tits. With no points in between. If you truly can't find a single male that will bang you; I suggest perhaps trying to look less beastly upon going out in public. A small suggestion that tends to go a long way. It also spares both parties an awful trip to the Super Market where the question of "paper or plastic"is instantly resolved with a resounding: "PAPER PLEASE!". 

I will finish this with one very significant point. If by chance, you find a person in the community of people you are in that is just as cool and down to fuck as you... AND keeps all dramatics to a bare minimum: For God's sake don't fuck it up. Few are blessed with this lucky and convenient set up. So please (unless we are speaking literally): don't blow it, because in the future your decision will be a hard one to swallow.

Women and men can be completely platonic best friends under one condition: If both parties share an unwavering preference for the cock.

Monday, August 3, 2009

Douche Bag Review: Part I

The Overly-Confident Guy

Better known to everyone else observing him as the Token DOUCHE. While attempting to look up some sort of  all encompassing definition for 'token douche' one is quite likely to come across a plethora of Guido pictures.

This is because there is a simple formula: All Guidos= douche bags, however not All douche bags=Guidos. Stay with me, it's all very complex and mathematical in nature.

When it comes to this breed of humans: no one is safe. The douche bag will approach every single person they come across as if it would be a personal honor to all of us to be in his presence; and subsequently the presence of his tiny, tiny penis. He walks around a bar with his arms lifted 5 inches away from his sides at all times. This is of course to show us all his expensive steroid investment. A particularly obnoxious quality when your trying to walk around him and end up getting shoved up against the wall. (If I am getting shoved anywhere by a guy, and it's not followed up by some rather impressive penetration and hair pulling; I will be forced to taser him). Furthermore those kind of muscles do not fool me for one minute. These buldges, no matter how massive, will never be able to compensate for the lack-there-of down south.

After making his way to the bar, the guy will then find any reflective surface in the whole establishment to make sure he is looking up to par. (Worst case scenario the reflective surface may be the aviators his equally douchey friend is sporting in the dark.) He gives himself a once over to make sure he is: A) Tan enough B) His hair is still in fact gelled to perfection. Every single strand must be standing straight up at attention; the way his cock never seems to be able to  C) His eyebrows are waxed and shaped to Brooke Shields like perfection. And finally D) The layer of coconut chap stick he stole off his 12 year old sister is still perfectly coating his lips.

After all points have been checked, the token douche will order a drink with his buddies a.k.a the gang of douche bags which might as well be sextuplets as far as the rest of us are concerned. This is because they all look more alike to us than the staff at the local Chinese take-out place.

And after all is settled, comes the point which everyone dreads. They do the most horrific thing one could possibly imagine them doing...they speak. However, as I have observed they do not hit on you nor do they speak to you. No, they hit at you and speak at you. Such as:

"You and I are gonna take a shot right now."

Or if you manage to come to your senses and run they'll throw something at you like: "Yo where you going? Sit here and talk to me. What are you going to find all the way over there? You ain't findin nobody better than me I can tell you that!"

Charming. If that suave line won't have my ankles tucked behind my ears in sheer moments, I don't know what will.

A while back I was approached by an overly confident douche. I was sitting at a favorite local bar. Relaxing and having a few drinks with friends. Rookie mistake. Never show them your vulnerable. So as I was accosted by the token douche of the bar this particular evening; I had to combat it the only way I knew how. Take the fact that their dumb as balls and exploit it to your advantage. The conversation went as follows...

"Hey why are you sitting here?! You should be out there dancing with me!" He screamed over the music  and into my face while pointing toward the dance floor. There stood his butt fucking best friends who were expressing themselves through what seemed to be interpretative dance... you know but somehow more gay.

"Yeah, um, yeah I'm sorry I would it's just that I have a bad leg" I responded with a shrug and gentle tap to my right leg.

"Oh you do?!" He quipped not convinced, or maybe not caring that I had this ailment. At this point of the evening his desperation would have probably led him to steer some chick around in her wheel chair after him had he been able to get his hands on her.

"I really do," I responded keeping my composure. (A talent I have when I speak to the mentally handicapped. What can I say? I was blessed at birth.)


"So how'd you hurt it then?" He continued to pry starring at it suspiciously; as if it was supposed to have an 'out of order sign' on it to justify what I just told him.

Without letting a moment go by, I shot back," 'Nam " Then proceeded to turn around and join my friends, who were trying to contain their laughter, for another round of drinks.

"Like, like... 'Nam, as in Vietnam?!" I heard him mumble to the back of my head right before shuffling back to the dance floor while scratching his head; joining his friends who were now mastering river dance.

Victory was mine.

One small step for me, but a huge leap for all Vietnam veterans around the world.


The Overly- Confident Girl

On the other hand, to be fair, I must mention the overly-confident woman. This segment is a hell of a lot shorter because it really just leads down to several factors.

A) The woman is good looking: She approaches a guy at the bar, hits on him, and eventually spreads her legs faster than the popular girl in high school with the slew of daddy issues. In this case, good for you. I congratulate you on your luck. A good and easy lay is hard enough to come across when you are trying; let alone when it just falls in to your lap/onto your dick reverse cowgirl style.

B) The girl who holds a striking resemblance to Shrek: This is pretty fucking elementary as well. For all men know that if a woman forcefully throws herself on a guy, who makes tittie fucking Barbera Bush look more appealing in comparison; there is only one thing left to do. Sheer self preservation. Time to guard yourself against the ogre and tell her that you'd most likely rather shove your dick into a toaster on this lovely evening. End of story there, because the villagers holding the torches and pitch forks would have surely caught up to her by now anyways.

C) Now this is the only tricky part. The girl who is anywhere from moderately-extremely attractive BUT completely shit faced. I'm talking Paula Abdul out of it. It's a wonder how she's managing to put one foot in front of the other at this point, let alone dance. But she's attempting to pull it together. And even though her eyes are about half closed at this point; many guys do not give a flying fuck. They are set on taking HO Bags home with them as a souvenir.

I was again umm lucky? enough to observe something exactly like this on my recent trip to Las Vegas.The story unfolded right before my eyes...

While dancing at this club called BANK; I felt someone elbow me in the back. Pissed off, I look to see who the idiot was who decided to go over their self defense classes rather than dance tonight. However, my gaze caught a cute girl dancing with this guy. He, was obviously less intoxicated than she. I concluded this because he looked at me apologetically motioning to her and mouthed 'I'm sorry.' And she stood there flailing her arms, eyes half closed,her ass shoved in his crotch, and her dress rolled up to somewhere below her belly button but above her g-string.

Just minutes later she swings her body around and starts making out with him, all the while completely disrobing him of his shirt. The naive little man looked like a kid on Christmas morning. Clearly excited at his fortune, he was smiling ear to ear. Fairly confident that his dick is definitely making a guest appearance in one of her orphases in some way shape or form by the end of the night.

I left, knowing how it will all end. I was sad for him, because I knew exactly what was coming.

As I turned around briefly one more time before exiting the club, I see her projectile vomit all over the dance floor. Yep, that was inevitable. She probably even wiped herself with his shirt that she took off just moments before. Poor guy. But lesson learned: Pursue the far-gone HO Bags with extreme caution, because the chances of her simply blowing you are much lower than those of her blowing her dinner all over you.

It's all fun and games until somebody gets pregnant. And then, well, it can still be fun and games as long as that 'somebody' is not me. 

Monday, July 20, 2009

Public Service Announcement :
How using cliches can make you a  fucking embarrassment to the human race: IV

"Beauty is In the eye of the beholder."

LIES!

A) Here we go, yet another thing the visually unacceptable tell themselves to soften the cold, harsh blow of shit-show genetics. Unless the 'beholder' is severely cross eyed, or legally blind; there is just no way one person can say someone is downright beautiful while the another wouldn't touch them with someone elses genitals.

B) Simply the word 'beauty' holds a lot of meaning. It does not mean 'kind of cute.' It does not mean 'I'd fuck her as long as she wears the stock supply of paper bags in Super Fresh.' And it certainly does not even mean 'mediocre looking (in dim lighting).' Beauty means something extraordinary. As in not extraordinarily beastly.

C) Lastly, the only notable exception to my take on this is: BABIES. I will admit in this case that there are some truly questionable looking children out there that the parents of which still find 'beautiful.' The rest of us, which are not wearing these baby beer goggles of sorts, are then forced to stare at pictures of these creatures. All the while we must still maintain at least a sliver of composure and somehow contort the look of horror on our faces into a smile. Because of these parental delusions; every interaction with them begins to resemble  the overly enthusiastic acting in an audition for The Bold and the Beautiful. Exhausting, and often down right embarrassing!

(Note: If you think you might have an ugly baby please keep it to yourself until it grows out of it. All these forced smiles and compliments through clenched teeth are liable to give me an early onset of crows feet.)

Sometimes I look back on my high school years and think,"damn I should have slept around more." That way I could have easily graduated with an A in Geometry.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Mexico Memoirs

My carry on of Trojans slips off my lap as the bus taking me to the Philadelphia airport comes to an abrupt stop.

"Ugh," I moan as I pry my eyes open.The sight of my best friend Cheeha greeted me instead of the sun. She sat hunched over next to me passed out like the token high school cheerleader after a night of getting gang banged by the whole football team.

It was four in the morning and still dark out. Since this is a Sunday morning I speak of, I was of course hung over by this point. No, not even an early ball-sucking flight can get me to let a perfectly good Saturday night go to waste.

Like my dad always says: "A Saturday wasted is a Saturday spent when your not wasted." (Well come think of it, it wasn't my dad who said that. Rather this good looking older gentleman I insisted on calling 'daddy').

That aside however, I especially could not stay in this evening because my friends and I were celebrating my good friend Rita's (Funbags) birthday. Most of my time was spent chasing her around the VIP section of Prime Lounge, in attempt to make her stop pulling up the skirt of her dress and as a result show all her co-workers her cheery pie. A move she would regret the next morning  next to the 'for her pleasure condoms' behind the Rite Aid Pharmacy counter.

Luckily in between the skirt saving, I was actually able to successfully tongue wrestle a bottle of Moet; which somehow managed to hit me harder than Chris Brown. This left me pleasantly buzzed, but I'd certainly need another bottle to even attempt to keep up with Rita's exhibitionistic tendencies.

"Just make sure you keep your fucking underwear on" I yelled to her across the room as she sandwiched herself between a few more guests. The truth is I was happy for her and glad she was enjoying her birthday, she really deserved it. However, as she finally spilled her vodka red bull on me I declared her a lost cause and sat back to enjoy the show.

But now all the festivities were a distant memory as I sat in the bus...sober as fuck. To top it all off I developed a killer headache, which I know can only be solved by more booze. I went in search for my cure as we entered our terminal. Just minutes into my search and headache rescue, I cursed aloud out of disappointment in the airport wine bar after finding that it's in fact closed 5 AM. I had to opt for some hot tea instead. "Airports should really be more alcoholic friendly!" i deduced. And may have even said out loud to the gentleman working the night shift at the Dunk Donuts.

One four hour (passed out) plane ride later and I was in Cancun. Awesome. Honestly, nothing is able to cheer me up more than the sight of the incredibly blue ocean, white sand, and promises of an all inclusive open bar. It was hot as balls in the month of June, so it's really necessary for my personal health to tote a cool drink around with me at all times. Frozen mixed drinks work the best.

Luckily for us the resort Gabby chose to have her wedding at was off the hook. Cheeha and I shared a junior suite that connected to another one which was occupied by our good friends Katherine and Jane. This way we always had the option of diking it out in our respective rooms, if need be. Or we could always decide to have a full blown orgy in the small hallway which connected the two. Although we appreciated the convenience of this, housekeeping frowned upon the claeaning up of the double sided dildo greatly.

But I will say that my favorite thing about the whole resort were the Cabana boys! Small men who's entire days purpose was to make sure that I have enough Pina Coladas and other alcoholic beverages to maintain a steady buzz. (A state I prefer to keep through all my vacations, and the occasional Wednesday morning). In fact, if the cabana boys had wings, they'd for sure be my God-sent little Mexican angles. Nothing beats the sound of Diego's little feet pitter-pattering to my lounge chair with a tray full of Mimosas at 9 AM.

And like all other vacations this affinity for being under the influence constantly means that I can't deliver one cohesive story for you. I can only piece together a few that I think you would enjoy as much as I enjoyed being there. Well, as far as I can remember. Enjoy

Carlos Re-Defines Romance

The first night spent in the resort by my friends and the rest of Gabby's bridal party was filled with more mixed emotions than a budding female lesbian in the female locker room. Some people were tired, others were hyper, and i was devious. In fact it was when my friends Cheeha and Katherine decided to go upstairs and get some sleep that my deviant behavior kicked in the hardest. Jane joined me in my sadistic ventures as we began thinking of ways to fuck with them while they were sleeping. Because the revelation of doing something to them only entered my head in between ingesting my fifth and sixth tequila shot, my ideas became more and more elaborate. And seeing as after ten minutes or so of drinking, the plot I had in mind could easily rival a Cirque Du Soleil production that may just end in impregnation, I decided to ask for some help.

Jane and I headed out to find my cousin, Markman, who just happened to be one of the groomsmen on the trip. He is the absolute king of pranks. Making Ashton Kutcher's Punk'd look like something suitable for PBS in comparison. No one can beat him. And if they try they are certain to be repaid ten fold by something along the lines of a Fed Exed African baby package. And although I came to the conclusion that doing anything on a bigger scale will make for incredibly pissed roommates (who have easy access to my tooth brush and other toiletries). I just decided to do something small and mildly entertaining. The best part about Markman is that he certainly has a spectrum of pranks ranging wider than Clay Aiken's asshole after a night of clubbing, from me to chose from.

Jane, eager to get the ball rolling, decided to open the conversation with him.

"Hey Markman. Elina and I really want to fuck with Cheeha and Katherine right now because they're asleep in their rooms. Is there any way you can help us think of something?"

At this point its probably important to add a certain tid bit about my friend Jane. She isn't the most outgoing or loud person by far. In fact she's incredibly shy and sometimes talks in a volume that is probably only comprehensible to small animals. And although I wasn't exactly sure what she said myself, while I was sitting just inches away from her, I could tell Markman was thrown for a loop completely.

I watched closely as he took a deep breath, shrugged his shoulders. and while looking down begrudgingly responded with, " Uhhh well ok, sure, ok, I'll guess help you."

Confused as to why his reaction was so dramatic; I decided to elaborate on Jane's question in a volume that was actually detectable to the human ear.

"Ok but I don't feel like putting in too much effort I'm kind of plastered. Help us think of a small paractically harmless prank" I elaborated.

"Wait what? You want to play a prank on them?" he instantly responded.

"Yeah that's what I said." Jane chimed in.

"Hahaha" he started laughing with an almost relieved expression on his face. "Oh my God that's much better. I originally heard Jane say. "Elina and I really want to fuck right now but Cheeha and Katherine are in our rooms. Can you help us?" he responded still relieved.

"Haha wow Markman." I responded truly touched that he would have put forth such a great effort to get Jane and I layed. Even though I am his cousin and Jane, just newly engaged. I truly didn't expect to have such a heart warming and bonding experience with my family member under these tequila driven circumstances.

And after this little scene, that would certainly give Growing Pains a run for its money, played out; Markman continued to play his role as the older role model. He simply suggested splaying seemingly used condoms all over their beds. And since I personally feel that condoms are only really good for practical jokes anyways I was sold.

I was off to assault my little friends with jizz sacs! Upon entering Jane's room we saw that Katherine was wide awake and reading a book. And by that I mean I'm fairly certain she used this time to play with herself. But that's neither here nor there.

The original game plane shifted as the prank was only to be played on Cheeha at this point, who was passed out like Lindsay Lohan after the Teen Choice Awards.

Jane and I gathered a condom from my vast collection and proceeded to do things to it with white moisturizer that no one should have to hear about. We then splayed it out on a piece of paper where we kindly scrolled the phone number of a friendly Mexican gentleman named Carlos. As I stepped back and admired our work, I announced to the girls.

" Aww you know its not that bad. Carlos turned out to be quite the sentimental lover indeed. Saving the condom and all."

As I was greeted with looks of both concern and disdain from Katherine and Jane, who couldn't help but wonder what qualified as 'sentimental' in my twisted world, I quickly exited their room and entered into mine and Cheeha's. Inside, I made sure to tip toe around and leave the little care package of sorts right on the night stand next to Cheeha's bed. As I fell into a tequila induced sleep, I waited for morning with the anticipation of a kid on Christmas awaiting to see what the rosey cheeked fat ass brought them this year on the birth of Christ.

Needless to say I wake up the next morning to slight ruffling on Cheeha's side of the bed followed by a simple and easy,

"Ahh good morning! Ummmm yeah, EW!"

That reaction alone was enough for me . And although Jane later tried to convince Cheeha (the most sober one of all of us the previous night) that she was in fact molested by the charming Carlos and sounds of thier love making resounded through the halls of our floor; her attempts were a failure.Nothing new there.

Later on in the morning, while sitting on the sandy beach, Cheeha reminisced of her supposed middle of the night romance.

"You know what Carlos and I shared was special guys! I really don't appreciate you making a mockery of it!"

"Haha" I responded with a chuckle. Then quickly grew completely silent.

As the wheels in my head began turning (facilitated of course by my 10 AM mimosa). I came to a slightly disturbing realization.

"Hey Cheeha, did you um trash the paper with the condom and phone number?"

"Nope, I wanted to save it" she said with a smile on her face. "it's probably still next to my bed because I wanted to take a picture of it"

I savored the moment of silence and bliss before I shared my realization.

"You know Cheeha the maid's cleaning the room as we speak" I announce right before I start convulsing in laughter.

" Oh shit!!!!" Cheeha exclaimed as she suddenly sat straight up. All four of us began laughing at the sight of the discovery harder than we would have at that of a flaccid 3 incher.

As I settled my laughter I just hoped Carlos isn't the maid's papi chulo, or Cheeha will probably find his severed cock on her pillow instead of the daily chocolate chip mint.

I Discovered How Swine Flu Spread Faster Than 'The Clap' at a Gay Frat

Several nights before Gabby's big wedding day, we decided to go to a club in the city of Cancun.Picking a club to go to in the city is quite different. Turns out it's a process that is undoubtedly harder than finding and negotiating with a descent hooker. Just walking down the streets you are bombarded by 30 different shady characters which swear up and down that they will get you into the nicest club with promises of no lines and open bar VIP. I'm fairly certain one even included his younger sister's virginity in the package deal as well.

And after a good half hour of melting on the streets in the heat, the men of our party negotiated a deal that was more or less fair. But more importantly got us into the air conditioned club rather than the sidewalk which reached a temperature that could probably only compare to that of a leather banana hammock.

While we were squeezing our way through the crowd I quickly analyzed the huge two story club. And although the music seemed to be quite good, one look at the dance floor and I came to the grim realization that I'm not coming home with a Mr. Cancun story of sorts. That is simply because it was as if there was a Miley Cyrus concert based on the look of the faces gyrating on the dance floor. And it seemed that unless I was wearing braces and somehow managed to pull off the title of prom queen earlier in the evening; I'd easily pass as 'Mrs Robinson' to any of these fuckers. The drinking age in Cancun is 18, and it was clear that 16-18 year olds migrated there as soon as school let out, and their acne cleared up.

Marching up the steps I followed the rest of our friends to our 'VIP' area. As it turns out this area consisted of the two mismatched bar stools on the extreme left side of the bar. Possibly next to a trash can. And as we all placed our drink orders, I gazed into the crowd which lined the upstairs. Truth be told, I had to admit that this was an older looking bunch...of  5'2" Mexicans. Great.

So naturally I had to cope the only way I know how: shots. And although the umpa lumpa sized shot glasses they brought made this task a little bit harder, I had to push through. At one point I even started to relax and dance. Making sure to always be checking around to see if anyone half my size was humping my leg.

A half an hour later or so, I am slowly turning my head back around from the ass safety check I was conducting on myself, I could have never predicted what was to follow. All of the sudden I hear this loud whistle go off in my ear. Then two little hands reach for my face. Squeezing it with such force that my mouth was able to pop right open. But before I could protest or say anything, a shot glass was shoved in there. And just like on many occasions before, I was forced to swallow.

"What the fuck?!" I managed to blurr out as my eyes focused on a younger Mexican woman putting the shot glass back in her apron along with the bottle she was using to pour with. Completely ignoring my earlier statement,  she then proceeds to smush my cheeks, shake my tits, twist my nipples, and pat my vag. After all of that she lets out a "WOOOHOOOOOOOOO" and moves on to do the same to the person standing to my left.

There were no words, I was in sheer and utter shock. Seconds later, I managed to push all flashbacks I had with a similar experience of losing my virginity aside, and I looked over at the rest of the people from out party. By the look of their facial expressions, I could tell we were all feeling the same pang of violation. 

"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?" we all pretty much said in unison.

But as the little Shot Ho tried to scam over fifty bucks out of us for forcing her disgusting drink down our throats, I noticed something even more disturbing. Her apron contained one shot glass, she undoubtedly used on every single person in the club. Well stick a pipe in my mouth and call me Sherlock Holmes, because that, ladies and gentlemen, is how fucking Mexico gets swine flu. (Luckily I did not.)

Ugh why can't shot ho just go harass the Real World Cancun pukes who were currently having something resembling an orgy on stage. At least that would force them to shut the fuck up for the 2 seconds as a shot glass is inverted in their mouths. You know that or they could all just go blow each other. Either way works for me.

Managing to salvage the night after this spectacle, I began to dance with all my friends and the bride to be. Which got absolutely annihilated and decided to dance with just about every guy who walked by. Her fiance, Paul, would allow this to go on up until the men's hands started traveling toward Gabby's ass. Then he would kindly motion them over, buy them a shot, and introduce them to Katherine.

And after a good ten minutes of conversing with these um 'eligible bachelors' who seemed to have little to no grasp over the English language, Katherine would then inevitably have the same reaction.

"Hey Paul let me introduce you to my friend Katherine" she exclaimed while sternly holding up her middle finger. This went on with at least another three or four guys, until Paul realized Katherine's next 'friend' she'll be introducing him to migh just  be a switch blade.

And although she was striking out for a potential threesome with Jesus, Horhay, and Pedro; I was making some moves of my own. As several guys who were of a seemingly decent age approached me, I headed over to their table. Which by this point was covered in vodka : a selling point This of course because at one point they rendered all shot glasses useless and started guzzling down the vodka straight out of the bottle. 

"Heyyyy how's it going waannna shot?!" The most attractive one of the bunch slurred in my direction. Typicalliy I'd be flattered. but matters that were out of my hands foced this situation to go south...

Now ladies, I'm sure you can relate to this very moment. It's getting later in the night, and you actually see an attractive guy approach you. And although you can tell he's three sheets to wind, you figure you can't judge because well, you are too.  But as they come up to you and speak their very first words you detect something so repulsive, and yet unfortunately not at all foreign. Yep, the smell of vodka mixed with VOMIT on their breath. DEAL BREAKER

As soon as I got that whiff, I didn't even bother answering the question. I pulled a quick 180 and hauled ass out of Daddios in hopes of purchasing some weed down the street.

Now, I would have previously assumed that walking down the street in Mexico after a night of clubbing, finding weed should be about as easy as finding a man that can't reach 5'4" on his tippy toes. Not the fucking case!. In fact when finding weed was the only thing that would seem to put the appropriate ending to this questionable night, it was probably the hardest thing to do.

"Hey man!" Paul screamed out to a guy driving a pizza hut delivery bike. 

Upon spotting the bike across the street, I was almost sure he'd have something to sell us in the 'pizza container' of his. Whether it be drugs, or perhaps a spare liver or kidney was still up for debate.

Although any of those organs would have instantly gone to shit, as Pizza Padre drove his bike into oncoming traffic. He came just inches away from death just to meet us on the opposite side of the street. Now that's some serious devotion to your Pizza Hut job. I'm fairly certain the delivery boys in the states spend most of their time on the job playing with themselves in their nicely air conditioned cars. (Just another sad but true fact of life).

"Si, what do you need?" Pizza Padre asked with the intensity of a hooker that just got back on the job after a herpes induced sabbatical.

"Hey amigo you got any weed on you?" Paul asked without a doubt in his mind.

" Ohhh noo amigo no weed!" Pizza Padre responded with a look of pure fear on his face. "But I have pizza for nine dollars!" he continues on as he trails after us on his bike.

Moreover, as he sensed our displeasure and disappointment climbing in his insufficient weed supply, he decided to make up for it by bargaining.

" OK, ok, how about eight dollars amigo? I'll give it to you for eight!"

A long ten minutes later. and our group would have been offered the pie for fifty cents and a piece of gum. However, we made sure to make it perfectly clear that our desire to devour a pizza that was almost guaranteed to give us the shits for the rest of our stay was at an all time low. And perhaps if Pizza Padre, wasn't such a pussy and actually had some weed to sell us, we'd come back for that pizza once the muchies got the best of us.

But the truth was that Pizza Padre and the false hopes he provided everyone with that evening was hardly the person at fault here. No, I could only blame the  Mexican government for waging the drug war that left me walking back to the hotel as clean as the cast of High School Musical.

I swore to myself that the next time I venture out in Mexico I'd pull the celebrity card to score some pot. I'd simply tell them all that I was Michal Phelps, and they are more than welcome to take pictures of me hitting the bong harder than a lazy hooker, and later selling them for thousands. I could totally pass. I'm sure all white folks look the fucking same to them anyways.

A Brief Note On The Wedding

Yes, turns out a tropical wedding on the beach is just as beautiful as it sounds like it would be. I would even say that it was THE most beautiful wedding I have ever seen. Even though it is a well known fact that nuptials make me queasy.

I, as the perpetually intoxicated bridesmaid was able to hold it together much better than anyone would have expected. I stayed completely sober through out the whole day and through the ceremony. Had I ever pussyed out and actually joined AA; this day would have left me with an extremely proud sponsor. In fact, I would even admit that after running around all day and taking pictures in the disgusting heat, booze was the last thing on my mind as I fought urges to strip off my gown in the 98 degree weather.

"One more picture" the photographer would yell. "don't be afraid to look sexy" he kept telling me as I uncomfortably tried to figure out how exactly one would go about looking ''sexy in a bridesmaid dress.

Finally fed up with his remarks, the matron of honor snapped back, "Hey Alex! You want her to jump in the shower for you maybe?!"

"Nah we'll do that later" he responded with a smirk.

My potential Mr. Cancun of the trip? I would rather die.

However, aside form the constant hasseling of the photographer and videpgrapher; the day went on flawlessly. Breath -taking and sentimental. Well, up until the throwing of the boquet that is. As the preperation for this idiotic ritual began, I knew that if it came flying toward me I'd sprint like a star running back in the NFL... in the opposite direction. But luckily I ,and the rest of the apathtic single women at the wedding, chose the one girl that acutally wanted to get married in the near future to stand front and center. So as the flowers came flying through the air, all we had to do was take a single step off center and watch her catch the bait. Beautiful.

At the end of the day, I became fairly certain myself that if I were to get married; I too would like it to be in Mexico. To a man named Jesus. So I can run around announcing "I'm a big Jew and Jesus loves me!" That would undoubtedly make me the female Jesse Jackson in the Christian community. Which sounds like a flawless plan B if my rap carreer fails to take off within the next couple of years. I smied at my future plans as I slurped up the remainder of my frozen margarita and stared into the vast blue ocean.

(On a side note I think it is important I inform you that since my return to the states, my career as a future reverend is no longer a possibility. I bring you this news with a heavy heart seeing as preaching to the Christian masses is not only a passion of mine, but something I'd be incredibly inspirational at. It seems that it wouldnt be fair to take this carreer path in leiu of a recent porkfest I participated in on Church park grounds. Spead eagle, in a backseat. Jesus was not happy).

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Top 5 Things Couples Do, That In Turn Make The Rest Of Us Want To Slash Their Tires

1) Extreme PDA

When in the company of others it is important to behave in such a away that does not result in condoms being offered up to you like the baseball dispenser at a batting cage. From the side its a lot like witnessing the ending of a disgustingly mushy chick flick over and over and over again. By the time the closing credits come on, you don't know whether to throw up or punch you neighbor in the face. (The amount of buttered popcorn consumed usually decides this dilemma for you).

Plain and simple. A group outing is just not the appropriate time for you and your bitch to exchange handy-jay's under the dinner table. Your 'O' face is a far from appetizing sight as it obnoxiously stands in the background of my sushi rolls. This vision alone is enough to trigger my gag reflex then and there, thank you very much. And to be completely honest, If I wanted to do that all I'd have to do is Google search Rosie O'Donnell photos. That's really all it takes for smooth bulimic sailing from then on

Furthermore if I wanted to inspect a couple sucking face all night I would have stayed home and watched internet porn. The people tend to be better looking and way more talented at the genital handshake. Also, I am quite comforted by the ending of the porno rather than this bizarre PDA showing. At least in the first case scenario I know it will end with a rather predictable cum shot to the porn stars face. While in the second scenario, I may just end up having to shoot myself in the face.

2) The 'Whipped Guy'

Yes, I am of course referring to the token guy or 6 that tend to develop a rather hefty vag after entering a relationship. In some cases of marriage for example, the extremely unfortunate men don't only develop female genitalia, but a serious looking F.U.P.A as well. This is most likely due to the allure of a hearty home cooked meal. A rather clever scheme to promote home-confinement.

My favorite part is when they refuse to admit that they are a complete slave to the she- beast which rules their lives. The household dictator which decides everything for them, from the underwear they wear in the morning to the amount of special tissue time they are allotted each week. This sad fact of life is particularly evident when the  whipped man schedules to go out with his group of friends. The pattern is always the same. For the weeks prior to the engagement he'll pretend to have full intention of meeting you over the weekend. He will most likely even show more enthusiasm for these plans than any other person set to attend. And of course all this build up is almost always followed by a last minute phone call.

"Yeah turns out I can't make it tonight after all. Something came up. Blows to be missing it, but I'll catch you next time for sure."

And although to them their excuses always seems to be just plausible enough to save face, to the rest of us it all sounds exactly the same:

"Blah blah blah. I'm a BIG vagina. Blah Blah Blah. She-beast locked me in the basement again. Blah Blah Blah I'll call you when I get off my period."

In short, we're not dumb. All your single friends are well aware of the fact that unless your she-beast keeper has been mistaken for cattle and slaughtered earlier in the week, you never had the intention of actually coming out and you never will. We are all very well aware of the fact that your balls made a nice little garnish to the roast beef (or something equally offensive) she cooked up for dinner once again. Furthermore, to be completely and utterly honest we only keep the whipped guy around to make fun of him and his string of perpetual yeast infections.

3) Public Fights/ Bickering

Listen up. Unless one of you decides to go Chris Brown/ Rhianna on each other; I don't want to see it. If a couple decides to fight out in public among their friends, there better be a sharp left hook or round house kick mixed in there somehow. In short, if it's not UFC worthy, my desire to witness this 'fight' is about as high as my desire to tea bag Hugh Hefner. Low

In most cases, watching a couple bicker or fight makes everyone around them incredibly uncomfortable. We all sit there thanking God for our single existence. And while we're at our prayer session, we are also willing him to make time go faster.

There is just one exception to this window of time in my life I'm never getting back. The exception is of course the presence of crying, Now that's what I call a fucking show! In fact, the site of tears almost always makes me plop my ass right in front of you to see more. I will be sure to be facing you square on, hands propping up my chin, and grinning from ear to ear. Just PRAYING for someone to step up and start crying with sound. Simply because any kind of whimpering or sobbing coming from the chick (but especially the guy) is MONEY! Perhaps this little sick pleasure of mine makes me an insensitive bitch. But one must admit that watching two grown people bicker and cry over who forgot to clean out Mr. Jingles litter box earlier in the evening is absolutely hilarious.

So unless there is an intense physical fight or some serious Liftetime Network worthy crying involved, I don't want to hear it. Do us all a huge favor and conduct your cat fights on you own time and in the privacy of your own homes. And for Gods sake leave Mr Jingles out of it!

4) Over-Sharing About Their Sex Lives

Plain and simple, my life was just fine without the added knowledge of the fact that my friend Bill enjoys the occasional finger or two in his asshole or getting his salad tossed. And I'm certainly not sleeping any better after finding out that Jessica gets off on getting gagged and beaten with a studded belt. Chances are that the sight of either one of the two in leather, ass-less chaps is enough to give me nightmares for the next 6 months.

I'm clearly all about talking about sex, but there are certain detailed secrets that are best kept locked up in that naughty drawer. Along with the anal beads and the penis pump.

5) Insisting On Doing EVERYTHING Together

Nothing saddens me more than the sight of a full grown man trotting though Victoria Secret while uncomfortably cradling a purple Coach purse. All the while he's making sure to always be looking down. God forbid his 5'2" female 'owner' catches him looking at a picture of Adriana Lima sporting the newest push-up bra. Hell will be raised and granny panties will be thrown in a fit of fury. There is no reason for a man to be subjected to this shopping ritual. And quite frankly, their broad frames are usually blocking my view of the lace thongs. (Which I happen to collect as enthusiastically as some horde stamps.)

On the other hand, another disturbing sight which fits into this category, is that of a woman at a sporting event she clearly has little to no interest in. This one I find particularly offensive because on more than one occasion my enjoyment of a perfectly good  hockey game has been dampered by yapping from someone's female counter part. This raping of my ears always tempts me to politely tap them on the shoulder and announce:

"Um excuse me ma'am would you mind kindly shutting the fuck up seeing as your grocery list is about as important as your husbands desire to live at this point."

Sporting events are sacred to those of us who actually care. So I suggest either learning how to sign to one another, or shoving a sock/cock in it!



If any of these 5 characteristics sound like you, please seek help immediately! Re-evaluate your priorities, or don't be at all surprised to find your tires slashed, or your beloved Mr Jingles missing for that matter.


Wednesday, July 8, 2009

My current goals in life are humble- Party like a rock star, fuck like a porn star, earn like a movie star; and when it comes to marriage: run like a track star.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Pressing Issues Which I Will Discuss With the Eloquence of Anderson Cooper. Part I

1) 'Free' Drinks At The Bar

There is no such thing as a 'free drink' anymore. Those days are long gone! If a guy decides to buy a woman a drink at the bar his intentions are very clear. He will stand there, not moving an inch, simply waiting for her to down every last drop. This way she'll eventually get plastered, and he will have an empty receptacle on hand to empty his load in after she kindly jacks him off out back. There are no exceptions in this little tid bit. No one's investing in your $10 apple martini unless they have something to show for it at the end of the night. And being in the presence of your 'bright smile' or your 'shiny personality' is just not worth the exchange. (Note: by personality I am of course always referring to tits)

Women, never cautious about anything that is 'free' will take these men up on their offers consistently. Rookie mistake. Congratulations you have now found yourself a suitor that will follow you around for the rest of the night until they can persuade you to participate in any form of penetration. And who says chivalry is dead?

2) Men Who Haven't Been Laid in a While

Men resort to truly sick practices when they haven't had a decent blow job in a while. Or any blow job for that matter. In fact some resort to such lows that I had to address this topic immediately.

Please stop chasing your dogs around with that jar of peanut butter. It's truly disturbing and not what I had originally thought when you swore up and down that you are a huge animal lover. Instead of harassing man's best friend why don't you sling that gross ball sack of yours into a pair of jeans and head out. Find some local bar and get a fat chick to lick the Skippy peanut butter off your dick instead. She's probably hungry by the time last call comes around anyways.

3) Bisexual Men

This topic is one that gets my brain to work harder than Paris Hilton's while trying to figure out new and improved ways to show the world her roomy 'presidential suite'. How does a seemingly straight guy turn into a bisexual?! Wouldn't any type of cock fondling automatically make him gay?? I can't imagine a pussy lover wake up one morning and go:" Huh, you know I was thinking... Bill's, from accounting, dick is looking mighty fine today. I think I might like to stick it in my mouth."

Might as well just switch teams at this point as far as I'm concerned. Be proud of your new found love for cock. Prop up a rainbow flag in that cubicle of yours, wave it high! With any luck Bill will notice and send you his number, and before you know it, a romance will blossom. You can be the bottom to his top.


Thursday, June 18, 2009

Pre-Gaming for MEXICO
('quatro tequilas por favor')

The swine flu and drug war will seem about as threatening as a girl scout once yours truly touches down in Mexico next week. And although I can't promise any adventures that will be as exciting as Miami was, I CAN promise that I'll be knee deep in tequila for the whole 7 days I am there. Moreover, if I can figure out a way to snorkel in it, it shall be done.

The official reason for this trip is my good friend Gabby's wedding, in which I hold the spot as perhaps the most degenerate of all the bridesmaids. As many of you have previously read in "Diaries of a Drunk Bridesmaid." my commitment to this wedding is a serious one. I made sure to attend the bachelorette party and bridal shower with a smile on my face and a bottle of alcohol in my hand.. I baked cockies (penis-shaped cookies), wielded dildos, and came dangerously close to a questionable looking strippers nuts and berries. I didn't go through all of this because it was fun for me, no. I did it because I am a devoted friend and citizen of this world and I do what I can given the proper amount of alcohol. So as this trip embarks upon myself and the rest of my friends attending this wedding, I have set a few personal goals that have nothing to do with me getting plastered, or having fun, or getting laid. Although if these three things happen to occur then so be it

1) I am not a socially ignorant person. I am well aware of the terrible circumstances that Mexico is in as a country economically. Therefore this coming week I will do my part to stimulate the Mexican economy harder than a case of KY Jelly. Take my word, there will be no one that will consume more alcohol than I this week. Of course there will be points when I don't think I can physically drink any longer, or when the token Mexican transexual in the dark corner of the club starts looking kind of pretty to me; but I wont let that stop me! No, I will power through. And before you judge me by saying that this to my benefit only rather than the Mexican economy; I will throw out something else: I also plan on giving the job market one swift kick in the balls. All I can disclose at this point is that there might be another surprise bachelorette party for the bride, and it may just involve a handful of little Mexican strippers who've been out of work for months now.

2) I'm very excited to be rooming with my best friend Cheeha on this little get away. A fellow bridesmaid, she is probably the only person that can rival me in my mentally retarded tendencies. She claims that I torture her, and quite frankly I can't disagree. But this trip to Mexico this torture will be coupled with bestowing her with great responsibility. Since I will most likely be passed out in a cabana after a long night of 'stimulating the economy,' I'll have to put her in charge of fighting the drug war. In fact, Cheeha's 5' um 0" frame is just threatening enough to get the job done. After all that's still a good foot taller than most Mexicans I have met. So upon our arrival in Cancun I will send her into the streets with two butter knives, a fork, and a Sombrero to instill fear into anyone drug lord that even attempts to fuck with us. She's trained to inflict real pain with or without her collection of silverware/ weapons. If approached she's just low to the ground enough to slice open a shin with one swift bite. True story, I've seen it.

3) In addition to the rest of the bridal party and Gabby's whole family; my friends Jane and Katherine will be joining us as well. Although I already appointed them with the task of spreading sun tan lotion on the members of the bride's family that are over the tender age of 60; there is much more for them to do. These two lovely ladies will also be in charge or making sure there is a constant condom supply. At any given time they are expected to have 6-7 on hand, each. This is not because we expect to have 6-7 sexual partners during the span of the trip; assuming there are no roofies involved. It is because this is Cancun, and the necessity to triple or even quadruple bag in some cases is unfortunately a must.

4) Lastly I plan on keeping my whole party of people safe from the dreaded swine flu! Yes, I will be providing everyone with decorated surgical masks. Each will have a saying I see fit for the individual, scrolled across the front in permanent marker. And if they refuse to oblige by the rules of wearing the masks at all times, I'll be forced to write on them with or without it. Because I am a thoughtful individual, each mask will be personalized and created on the spot as I see is appropriate for the time. For example, after I accomplish my life time goal of fucking someone named Jesus. I will then proceed to scribe," Jesus came to(on) me last night" across the front of the mask.

So farewell to you all. Or should I say, "adios amigos, Donde esta la biblioteca?" I will soon leave you to begin a week of drunk antics and unsuccessful mariachi band try outs. I hope to be telling you all about it from my destination following the trip to Mexico: Vegas. And God only knows whether I'll be making it back from that trip. Nope ladies and gentlemen my life doesn't suck; but sometimes, if the mood strikes me, I do. .

Sunday, June 14, 2009

It has been found that everytime a man gets a woman off, an angel gets its wings. The time has come to dedicate
our lives to religion.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Public Service Announcement :

How using cliches can make you a  fucking embarrassment to the human race III

"Did someone get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?"

1) Since this is usually addressed to you if you are in a particularly bad mood, please be aware that the response to this question will typically be one hearty: FUCK YOU! This is if you are lucky and there are too many witnesses surrounding you. Otherwise, my right hand cross is coming down on you're face faster than a cock in in a jail cell.

2) Perhaps asking me if I have a 'case of the Mondays' would be the only other thing that would get you shot faster than the first reference. But those who insist on using either expression are the same fucking breed of people, so it's bound to happen eventually. In all honestly I find watching a whole fucking Marathon of the Hills more mentally stimulating than one simple interaction with these cheery fucks. Moreover, I'm so fed up with this particular group that I would gladly sponsor any type of research to spot the "Mindfuckingly Obnoxious Chromosome" in hopes of eventually altering it. Perhaps changing a person that consistently uses these phrases along with words such as 'folks' and ''darn,' to someone I can have a conversation with that spans longer that 15 seconds.

3) The literal expression itself makes about as much sense as a Jonas Brothers appearance on Howard Stern. What the fuck is the wrong side of the bed exactly? I could only really imagine that if you have a spouse or significant other sleeping with you. In which case getting up on the 'wrong' side would mean their side of the bed. In which case yeah, if your dumb ass had to roll over another life-size human being in order to get you ass out of bed this morning, it must have been a rough start to the day. Especially after taking a lashing from the person you just trampled your big ass over. There's not enough coffee in the world to fix this domestic dispute into a morning resembling a Folgers commercial.

However, if you live by yourself the whole bed is yours. Feel free to get up on any side you see fit. Pour yourself a hot cup of coffee (with a generous serving of Kahlua) and head out of your house  expressing whichever mood you are in freely.  And if telling the obnoxious human being that decides to throw this cliche at you to go fuck themselves in no longer fulfilling enough, venture into humoring them a bit. Listen carefully, then respond that getting out of bed this morning was nothing compared to getting out of their spouse's bed when you two hear their car pull into the garage. Followed up with a wink and a "Have a great day Bob/ Karen!" (Yeah, they're always fucking named Bob or Karen)

 Having a successful relationship is a lot like winning a drinking game. Swallowing gets you a lot further than spitting does.

A guys ego is a lot like his dick. If he can't find some bitch to stroke it for him;
he'll just end up doing it himself.

 

 

 

Public Service Announcement : How using cliches can make you a fucking

embarrassment to the human race: II

 

 "Don't Bite The Hand That Feeds You"

 

 A) This cliche is particularly annoying for several reasons, the first being that it does not consider a diverse audience. For example, if you are a fat ass, perhaps biting the hand that feeds you is the solution. In fact you should keep biting it til that hand drops the cheeseburger it's been trying to stuff down your throat and fucks off.

B) The hand that feeds you might just be a real bitch. Nothing like a good bite to make it calm the fuck down. I'm sure it deserved it anyways.

C) Biting can be a quite playful and enjoyable activity particularly when your porking. Who's to say the hand doesn't enjoy the biting? After all no one ever mentioned what the second hand is busy doing.

D) It's JUST the hand that feeds you. Big fucking deal, stuff your face somewhere else. I vote we change the saying to 'Don't bite the hand that lights your joint.' After all that's a far greater responsibility.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Top 5 Things People Do Over Facebook That In Turn Make Them About as Sexually Appealing as John McCain:

1)    The constant status updates that are not funny nor interesting at the least to any form of life that is reading it.

For example: "At the gym" (If you are under 300 pounds) or "Just bought a chicken salad for lunch" (If you' are not under 300 pounds)

Who the fuck cares?! Before you know it, it'll be a reflex to update every single thing you do. And no good will come of that for you, in fact you'll probably end up with " At the doctors office discussing a premature ejaculation problem" at some point. Now that, I would read and take note of.

2) Putting up over-sensitive statuses that make an episode of Oprah seem masculine in comparison.

People have no shame! These personal statuses are entirely too revealing and make anyone but your therapist feel incredibly uncomfortable. People that humor these statuses are obviously those that have nothing better to do with their time and resort to bsing on Facebook because dressing up their pets is no longer entertaining enough. To these people my advice is to get the fuck off Facebook seeing as you can not use it properly. Secondly, either go out and get laid so you can have your own shit to talk about. Or given you are not attractive enough to do so go pop a percocet and rub one out.Now back to the Emo losers. Contemplating suicide through your status? Don't tell me, you know I'm very likely to go ahead and click on the "like" icon.

3) The new 'fan' pages.

Some people feel like they have to become a fan of anything and everything that's up there. It's ok to be a fan of a person, TV show even. Something that is relevant in any way shape or form. Lately however some of the fan pages have been borderline retarded. For example there was a 'mothers' fan page. What kind of sorry fuck isn't a fan of mothers?! But just because I love my mom doesnt mean I have to make it Facebook fan page official. What's next a Facbook fan page for the whole family?! Fan of "Fathers", "Nanas", "Creepy Uncles?!" I dont think so! Let's at least get a little more creative. For example, I can easily become a big fan of "MILFS" rather. Or my personal favorite: "DILFS"

4) Some people have a habit of changing their relationship status as often as Lindsay Lohan changes her sexual orientation.

For the most part it's pretty fucking annoying but lately I have been able to draw a few accurate conclusions from the different relationship statuses people have up.

A) "Single." Stands for:
1) I like to fuck
2) My name _______. Ask me if I'd fuck you.
3) Hello. I'm a cocktease. Furthermore, just wanted to let you know, that profile picture of me going down on a beer bottle will never include you as a stand in for the beer bottle. Go harass the token fat chick.

B) " In a Relationship With ________."Better Known As:
1) ______ is my bitch.
2)Poke me and ______ will come after you.
3) Stay tuned for pics of me and ____ sucking face in every possible setting you can imagine. This does not exclude family occassions, public places, and funerals.

C) "In an Open Relationship"
1) I swing
2) I'm a raging whore who's open to getting gang banged. No holes are off limits.
3) I'm probably not as attractive as you would like for me to be, but I'll put out.

D) "It's Complicated"
1) Hi, my name is crazy.
2) I'm a Clingy Bitch and attempt to trap people with my genitalia.
3) I'm about to get dumped and am holding on for dear life seeing as the chances of anyone esle dating me are slim to none.

E) Nothing At all
1) DOn't even attempt to speak to me, get the fuck off my page...keep it moving

F) Married
1) Trying to live vicariously through my single friends
2) Dying of boredom while my wife is seeing how long she can grow her leg hair. I see corn rows in the near future.

5) Lastly, the old pastime of 'poking.'

Although it brings me great joy to report that people have let up on this rather barbaric Facebook ritual, the action is still appealing to some unfortunate individuals. Any poking that is to be done between you and I will not be done over Facebook. In fact if Facebook poking is the only type of poking you find yourself engaging in, it is time to re-evaluate your pecker potential.

 

A guy's sex life is like a game of bowling. He's either pinning things left and right, or he's stuck standing there with a couple of blue balls.