Monday, September 29, 2008
if only for one damn day
I hate spring cleaning
So during the last few years before my parents got divorcified and the crack rampaged through our family like a freight train hell bent on destruction, I was in the 6th grade, a super sexified gentleman with the authentic Kid-N-Play eraser box hairdo (I do technically have a photo, but I am not sure I am ready to unleash as such on you all. The last time I did the chick just started blowing me like there was no tomorrow, and then when I woke up from that dream my wife was still laughing at it), and known to the ladies as "that fat kid".
It was a gentle time, being beat up by the neighborhood bully, "Pooki", his name was, and verbally assaulted by his boylover/ sidekick, Ramon, Smeagol coming by with uglier and ugleir ladies to bed them in our house for God knows what reason, my sister constantly wrecking cars over and over and getting caught by yours truly midmount by some dude on our livingroom floor, great times. Today's tale is about me though, so let's get to it.
Amber was ugly. So was Trisha. Amber had one eyebrow. Trisha had 2, but also weighed in at about 325. Amber was a much more svelte 270-280, but messed that up with her hair issues. Hairy armpits are not sexy on a chick, no matter how ugly your face is it is not alright to just let that go to Hell too.
Anyway, Trisha was our neighbor, and Amber was the aunt of this nerdy kid who lived across the street. How does the Stevester factor into this? First, let me explain that I am not insulting them because they are big. One of the biggest crushes I had on any chick in my whole life was about 230 or so, and with her green eyes, big butt and Adam's apple she still gets a rise out of me. Amber was, as I noted before, almost insultingly ugly as well, with her unibrow of justice and hairy armpits that looked like she had gotten a goat in a headlock. The one thing she did have going for her was that she was 18, and, my being 12, an older chick wanting some Steve-Goo (that's copyrighted) was a pretty sassy proposition. Trisha, not so much. See we lived in a duplex on 9th and Cleveland (if you go to 9th and Cleveland, you will know what I am talkifying about, it's the only one there), a 2 story turn-of-the-century brick "parlorhouse", as our landlord put it. Upstairs, as was the style for the time I guess, the little roof over the porch made a great mini-deck for the second story, and this was what kept me up at night. Like wolves waiting for the sacrificial lamb to leave it's pen, Amber would sit across the street and watch my window all the time, and Trisha would tell JJ she was planning on raping me on a near daily basis, and I could see her waiting at her window, waiting patiently for me to leave my window unlocked so she could enter my room and thus...I dunno, make me enter her?
How do you rape a dude if you are a woman? That sounds physically impossible. "Keep your cock hard and lay there while I ride it, or I'ma gonna kill ya".... no way I say that in my head do I feel anything but arousal. Unless it is Greyskull, then I vomit into a trashcan while diahrrea takes me.
Anyway, on the fateful night that Amber finally got something out of me, I wa-
TUNE IN TOMORROW FOR PART 2 OF "A HISTORY OF SEXYTIME, ON ABC!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
mullet, handlebar mustache
So yesterday was JJ's birthday, we talked on the phone a few times, which is how I found out about Smeagol's fly ride, and this all got me to wondering: why has that raptor not contacted me? Let's look at some clues shall we?
Clue 1. Smeagol owes me money. This status on our relationship has not changed in about 15 years, and has not chance of changing any time in the near future, so I do not think this is it. I de expect him to call when he needs gas money, though, but history has shown when he gets a new car he likes to go around to all of the family and show off, and renew his life oath to never give my mother (who for reasons that will be detailed in a future post) is not allowed to operate anything stronger than a dildo on public streets.
Clue 2. Smeagol is ashamed of his job. This is probably the best reason, though he should know idf JJ knows everyone knows, and if he hadn't tried to cover it up by calling it his "second" job I would have nothing to even make fun of. The thought of Smeagol having shame, though, gives me some pause when considering this the likely culprit. He had no shame having his green thong on full display in front of any female I dared allow into our humble abode, and would routinely sit on the couch national Geographic style with his damn balls on display if I had the guys over to watch a game or something.
Clue 3. Smeagol's utilities are turned off. This is not only probable, but almost assured, as Smeagol has never had all of his utilities paid for at once, even after tax return, or what my family likes to call, "unpaid bill bailout" time. Smeagol would then go to my mom's house, though, so this one is out. He knows better than to overflow my toilet, and the thought of the Danlester stepping on his feet again and the giggling his raptor-grunts elicited must show him the err of coming to my home.
I know it is only a matter of time before he shows up, if only to ask me for a laptop and a copy of Diablo, which he has been asking for since I got my degree in computerotomy 7 years ago. I just don't know why he has not shown up yet. Has he somehow found the blog? Do I care? Has Will or the Tylester found him and simply pointed at him and laughed themselves sick, angering him and causing him to go back to his anger management classes to talk about the awesome destructive power of his rage?
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Alright, the first one is of me and the Bakelester. This asshat calls me upwards od 6 times a day to tell me about his tips. In the photo I told him we should take the ladies to the gunshow. As you can see I held up my end of the bargein (you're welcome, ladies), but he just points to his head. Thanks, choad.
Let me start by answering a few of the questions that instantly pop up in your filth-infested minds: no his weiner is not resting on my finger. No I am not pointing at his man-junk. No I do not remember why I have such an orgasmic o-face going on. No we are not holding hangs while his junk rests on my finger. I only read Cosmo to see what chicks think and stuff. I have never tasted an appletini. I am not sure why I am also pointing at my own junk, or why the Tylester's grin seems so serene.
To the ladies though, the answer is yes, such a delicious slice of man pie IS available for your loving pleasure, and I know what you're thinking: "How could such a sensual man-beast bursting with virility be also available? He must be a pedophile", but the answer is a big, huge, pulsating negatory... the Tylester is a futuristic love-bot, sent back in time to teach one lucky woman the ways of love...
BTW, Tylester you now owe me 10 dollars. Get it out of Smeagol's thong, wash it off, and give it to me.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
lance that nasty ass damn boil
And so on a lovely Autumn day, not too long after I had moved out to seek my fortune in the world, things were still shitty at Casa de la Crack. Toboggan Boy had been fired from yet another gas station for stealing product, Janet didn't even bother making the myriad of drug dealers pounding her fur chute leave when he came home, and Long John was getting more and more aggressive with him.
It was during these dark times, being constantly kidnapped, having his paychecks taken away by various alphabet-soup gang dealers, that I think things finally snapped. I guess Toboggan Boy, showing some of the remnants of his former self, decided enough was enough. I imagine him taking Janet's plunging action head off the shaft of the dealer, sitting naked on his pillow, letting the shittles leak onto their dingy bedspread and onto the floor, ostensibly toward the gutter where Toboggan's self respect had long gone along with his pride.
Stomping downstairs, he turned his anger on Long John, who was sitting in the filthy ass living room, eating his daily rations of cinnamon rolls and Doritos. The television was on, and since we could not afford cable or a decent pair of rabbit ears Fatso was standing next to it, holding a hanger (I know this because we had to make him do that whenever we wanted to watch television).
"Get off your ass and clean this shit up!" Toboggan Boy screamed sensually.
Apparently, this did not sit well with the long-cocked Long John, and he stood up and here is where I lose belief in this, and would not believe it except I saw the cast and corroborated the story with JJ, Long John and Toboggan Boy:
Long John apparently picked up a marble chess piece, maybe a rook, no more than 2 inches tall and launched it at Toboggan Boy, who put his hands up defensively and caught the full fury of the tiny rock on his crack-addled arm, breaking it. So let's put this all into perspective: Smeagol gets knocked out by 80+ year old men, not once but twice, and on the other end of the spectrum
Toboggan Boy has his arm broken by a chess piece thrown at him by a 14 year old.
Sometimes I wonder myself why I am not more fucked up.
Monday, September 15, 2008
O Kansas City,
Why do you hurt me so?
Play well against the Pats,
then caught in Raiders undertow?
Great Kansas City,
why do you suck so much?
One QB with a weak arm,
The other no soft touch?
Fine Kansas City,
Who, oh who is to blame?
Fire Edwards and Peterson both
The outcome t'would be the same
Sad, sad Kansas City,
where's our offensive front?
why doth our playbook read
"run, run, sack, punt"?
Some point to Larry,
Some say Croyle's to blame,
but I take a wider view,
for all 22 seem lame
A gentle wind whispers,
through seats gone unfilled
,as a tired fan base cries out
"why do we keep getting killed?"
Our play is uninspired,
Our stat sheet is a joke,
Our running back is useless,
Our star receivers choke
I thought it would be great
if we'd play a college or two,
but we would get routed
if we played Kansas or Mizzou
But worry not, fair KC Fans,
there's brighter days ahead
cause it can't get any dang worse
than it did last Sunday at Arrowhead.
This is my original work. Feel free to paraphrase/plaigarize.
Friday, September 12, 2008
mop up that damn jizz, Jenkins!
Is the fluffer done?
Before I get to today's post, I wanted to ask: Who in their right mind would ever become a fluffer? I was thinking about that on my way into work this morning because I am married and thus technically a virgin, and cannot wrap my head around why you would suck some dude's cock or eat some chick's vag and not get anything in return. That's like jizz mopper, you only get to see others enjoy, and where's the fun in that?
Alright, philosophy aside, lets get to the sexy time post.
Some of my best years in life were spent at high school. Football, ROTC, making out with the principal/lunch lady behind the dumpsters, those were good times. I recently ran into a good friend of mine from those foregone years, and reminisced about how I thought he was a homo. Great times.
The year? 1999. The school? Northeast, nay the best urban school you could go to if you wanted to know how it felt to be that one person who speaks a weird language no one else had ever heard of, in my case, English.
After football, we would venture by either the Sonic or the 7-11 on Independence Avenue, sit back and watch the hookers walk their strolls. On this particular day we were at Sonic, and having just gotten our total, which was like 3.46, I told Tony it was his turn to pay, as I had paid last time.
He hands me 3.47, and I give him his penny back. Let the games begin:
Tony: It's 3.47
Me: no, it is 3.46
Tony: No bitch! It 3-fuckin-47, you fuckin fag!
Me: Fine let's call and ask, and if you are right I will tell them I am gay, and if I am right you have to tell them you are gay.
<> How much was our total again?
Tony (to lady): Hi, I'm gay and I suck big dicks!
Lady:..... (stunned silence)
Later on as I was dropping him off I offered him 5 dollars to jump out of a moving car as I coasted by his house. I still owe him that 5 dollars.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
bacon arrives undercooked
"This pop certified?"
So here is the picture: a million little fuckin' brats, a line at the door full of kids I had never seen before waiting to get in and wreak their own havoc. The wife, gone. Dogs, hiding. Sphincter, loosening.
I finally just get up and start telling these little bastages they need to leave, and when they whine I tell them their parents don't love them anymore and shove them out the door. All told each child received 2 pieces of cake and 4 scoops of ice cream, along with 3 or 4 cups of Jolt, and I am sure the payback was worth having to deal with them, knowing they would keep their parents up ALL fucking night. Shows them for not coming over to corral their little semencakes.
So I finally get the 5 that are left to start getting ready, as the big plan is to take them to Pizza Street and then on to Chuck E Cheese's. Smeagol calls and I let that shits roll to machine: "Heeeeeyyyyyy niiiiiiggiiiiee.... I head there was a party or something and thought you mi- BEEP" I secretly pat myself on the cock (because I can't reach my back) for letting the machine fill up with telemarketer calls.
How does Smeagol find out about this crap? How does he know when there is something free? Does he have Raptoradar? (I am copyrighting that, any time you say it you owe me a hand-party)
Anyway, long story short, we get these damn kids through all of that and they still stay up until 3 in the fucking morning, snickering, probably rubbing weiners all over my drink cup (that's what I did as a lad at my friend's house) and generally being pains in the assholes.
Let's skip to Last night. I am sitting on the couch, consuming my normal meal which now consists of a salad and 3 gulps of fat-free air, and trying to watch some soft core porn with the boys (it's how we bond). Toby comes by and says, and I shit you not: "Hey, do you have some of the internet? I need you to look up a web page on internet exploring."
Ugh. Whatever, apparently JJ had paid 900 dollars to a lawyer who of course failed to show up. I asked if it was "Smeagol and Associates, LTD" but apparently not. Smeagol, as usual, missed his court date and now has a warrant from Ferrelview to add to his already impressive collection. I wonder if it was because he is so dedicated to his "second" job?
Also, in case some of you did not know, I am on the Facebook now, if you cannot find me on there, you are retarded. I am the only fat black guy wearing a tutu.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Smeagol drowns in ranch dressing
slurps with no teeth, mmmm
So I show up for work this morning, ready to put my communications diploma to work wowing the customer with my excellent customer service and attention to detail!
Then the coffee wore off.
In moseys this lady who is a computer retard. Let us call her a "computard", a word I just made up. She has a Mac, which instantly sours my day and makes me aroused, for some reason. That reason could later be pinpointed because I had been tweaking my nipples all morning for no reason, but I digress.
"Duh duh you fix Stevester makey workey splghghbgh" She said, gurgling stupidity and spittle all over the front of her stupid shirt.(Editor's note: there is rampant exaggerations in here, but I was fucking annoyed.)
Anyway, she shits this 24 inch iMac, one of those space age looking things with everything built into the monitor, down on the table, naming each component in case I, like her, am retarded:
"THis is the computer, this is the mouse, this is the keyboard."
I am ready to punch her back into the stone age, when she says AND I QUOTE: "Be careful, this is a brand new computer. "
What was I going to do to it if it was not brand new? In her warped retard mind would I have instantly disrobed, clutching my balls in one hand as I shot milky diahrrea all over her precious computer? Did telling me it was new in a condescending tone cause me to rethink hitting it with a sledge hammer? Did informing me that "...and it was expensive teehee!" dissuade me from thrusting my rock hard cock into each and ever orifice on her computer, leaning my head back in ejaculatory glee as I slit a kitten's throat and poured the innards into Greyskull's mouth as she watched hungrilly from the cage I had locked her in in order to watch such a special event?!
I apologise, that was friggin' nasty.
Why did she feel the need to tell me that it was expensive and that I needed to be careful? Why, if she was so damned worried about it, did she even bother leaving it with me? The way she looked at me when she told me to be careful would suggest she assumed I had never touched something this expensive before, and she wanted to make sure I did not immediately go pawn it. I should shove a finger into my own ass and wipe it on the screen, but I won't, because I assume that would hurt. Unless I was a chick, and then having stuff shoved up my ass would feel awesome.
Changing gears, our luncheon Friday with Lollipop, Will and P-Rit gave me an awesome idea. THis year the technology retreat is going to be at Lucky Strike, some gay bar downtown I think. It was posited that it would be awesome if I somehow showed up to ruin it like I ruined the last retreat I attended, and that I might wear the communications diploma on myself in some conspicuous way. Vote, and tell me what I must do.