Why don't you start crying, for all you have left.
end transmission.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Same Cars, Same Clothes, Same Desires, Same Woes.
So I have only to words with which two open today's Bullshit Session:
Hooker Fight.
I came to Las Vegas with a small list of things to accomplish. I have accomplished numbers 2 (fucked a stripper), 4 (got a job in a casino), 5 (took pictures of Ian asleep with my nuts on his forehead), 8 (turned down a blowjob from a female crackhead), 9 (turned down a blowjob from a male crackhead), and finally last night I checked off number 3 (watch two black hookers beat the shit out of each other, while on the clock).
I was "checking the meters" which in slot jargon means walking around with a clipboard looking official and intimidating drunk gambling foreigners. So there I was counting the minutes till lunch, when I heard a high pitch shriek, fallowed by a loud, "What now bitch!"
I immidiately knew it was an african american woman, because she just kept repeating "What now, Bitch!" over and over. I blame Hip-Hop, it encourages verbal expression through repitition. Kinda like marketing breakfast cereal, "whoop there it is!" or "my mind on my money, my money on my mind." might as well be "they're Grrrreat!"
Where was I...Oh, so I walk around a slot bank toward the bathroom, and there they are. The first thing I see...well first I'll tell you what they looked like.
The first girl had on what could only be described as a slightly wider than average rubberband around her thighs and the top half of her ass. It was hot pink, while her bra, which was about 3 cup sizes too small, was black. She had a blonde wig, and the highest stilletto heels I have ever seen. She looked (and moved) like she was walking on stilts. She also had a gut. Yes, dude, there were stretch marks.
The other gitl was real skinney, and black. I mean like the darkest black person I've ever seen, and she had on a pink wig, camo short skirt and one of those tight midrif shirts that unzipps down the cleavage.
Well Potbelly had Skinegro by the back of the neck and was punching, (womp, "What now, Bitch!") closed fist, (womp, "What now, Bitch!") not slapping, full on (womp, "What now, Bitch!") dude style punching this girl in (womp, "What now, Bitch!") the face. Skinegro's purse went flying, money went everywhere.
Skinegro then pulled away and promptly ("What now, Bitch!") fell on her ass, she was crying, her face bloody (Chopper, black people have red blood just like us, you lied to me), but she was ("What now, Bitch!") still ballsy enough to spit a "Fuck you! Bitch! This ain't yo shit!" Potbelly literally dove at the hooker on the ground, shrieking.
That's when I got on the radio, "Um...what's the 10 code for hooker fight?" (everything on the radio has a stupid 10 code, 10-5 bathroom break, 10-8 lunch, etc.) My clever quip was met with silence, and ("What now, Bitch!") that's about when security showed up and pulled these two hookers apart and cuffed them ("What now, Bitch!"). They would not stop yelling, and now that the skinny one had the big one cuffed and buffeted by security started getting real loud, "you ain't shit bitch, fuck you, etc." This made potbelly angrier, and consequently, louder. "you wanna come into MY house and shake your skank and then disrespect me, fuck you bitch. Fuck you bitch. Fuck you bitch. Fuck you bitch (you get the idea).
A third hooker came out of the bathroom and tried to put in her 2 cents but she was told she could leave now, or get cuffed too, so she quickly abandoned her whore buddies.
end transmission.
Hooker Fight.
I came to Las Vegas with a small list of things to accomplish. I have accomplished numbers 2 (fucked a stripper), 4 (got a job in a casino), 5 (took pictures of Ian asleep with my nuts on his forehead), 8 (turned down a blowjob from a female crackhead), 9 (turned down a blowjob from a male crackhead), and finally last night I checked off number 3 (watch two black hookers beat the shit out of each other, while on the clock).
I was "checking the meters" which in slot jargon means walking around with a clipboard looking official and intimidating drunk gambling foreigners. So there I was counting the minutes till lunch, when I heard a high pitch shriek, fallowed by a loud, "What now bitch!"
I immidiately knew it was an african american woman, because she just kept repeating "What now, Bitch!" over and over. I blame Hip-Hop, it encourages verbal expression through repitition. Kinda like marketing breakfast cereal, "whoop there it is!" or "my mind on my money, my money on my mind." might as well be "they're Grrrreat!"
Where was I...Oh, so I walk around a slot bank toward the bathroom, and there they are. The first thing I see...well first I'll tell you what they looked like.
The first girl had on what could only be described as a slightly wider than average rubberband around her thighs and the top half of her ass. It was hot pink, while her bra, which was about 3 cup sizes too small, was black. She had a blonde wig, and the highest stilletto heels I have ever seen. She looked (and moved) like she was walking on stilts. She also had a gut. Yes, dude, there were stretch marks.
The other gitl was real skinney, and black. I mean like the darkest black person I've ever seen, and she had on a pink wig, camo short skirt and one of those tight midrif shirts that unzipps down the cleavage.
Well Potbelly had Skinegro by the back of the neck and was punching, (womp, "What now, Bitch!") closed fist, (womp, "What now, Bitch!") not slapping, full on (womp, "What now, Bitch!") dude style punching this girl in (womp, "What now, Bitch!") the face. Skinegro's purse went flying, money went everywhere.
Skinegro then pulled away and promptly ("What now, Bitch!") fell on her ass, she was crying, her face bloody (Chopper, black people have red blood just like us, you lied to me), but she was ("What now, Bitch!") still ballsy enough to spit a "Fuck you! Bitch! This ain't yo shit!" Potbelly literally dove at the hooker on the ground, shrieking.
That's when I got on the radio, "Um...what's the 10 code for hooker fight?" (everything on the radio has a stupid 10 code, 10-5 bathroom break, 10-8 lunch, etc.) My clever quip was met with silence, and ("What now, Bitch!") that's about when security showed up and pulled these two hookers apart and cuffed them ("What now, Bitch!"). They would not stop yelling, and now that the skinny one had the big one cuffed and buffeted by security started getting real loud, "you ain't shit bitch, fuck you, etc." This made potbelly angrier, and consequently, louder. "you wanna come into MY house and shake your skank and then disrespect me, fuck you bitch. Fuck you bitch. Fuck you bitch. Fuck you bitch (you get the idea).
A third hooker came out of the bathroom and tried to put in her 2 cents but she was told she could leave now, or get cuffed too, so she quickly abandoned her whore buddies.
end transmission.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Back, and to the Left.
Holy Cow! I just found out something that is so fucking crazy, I just don't know what to do! I met this wonderful girl, who is borderline perfect. She's smart and beautiful, funny, the whole shubang! It's been a while since I felt a connection like this with a girl. My mom is a little upset that she's not Jewish, but other than that, things look good.
I recently found out, however that this perfect woman is seeing a psychiatrist! That wouldn't be so bad, except the therapist is my fucking Mom! Oh Man! What a crazy perdicament! Derrrr...
end transmission.
I recently found out, however that this perfect woman is seeing a psychiatrist! That wouldn't be so bad, except the therapist is my fucking Mom! Oh Man! What a crazy perdicament! Derrrr...
end transmission.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Those aren't boobs, they're lies!
So it's finally happened, I've seen so many fake boobs of such enormous, dissproportionate, and almost comical admeasurement that I have somehow reversed the Y chromosome directive to be attracted to big tits. Don't get me wrong, I can't help but stare at them, they just don't really do it for me anymore. Or maybe they do and I'm just too sober to notice. Something's changed, certainly. I guess it's like anything awesome, too much of it in your face or on either side of your cock, and you begin to grow uninterested and bored. IT's not that I don't like boobs anymore, it's just that it's the little ones that draw my attention now, instead of, "DUDE, look at the ginormous rack on her!," it's now more like, "Dude, that girls hasn't got a boob job yet, hot!"
Thanks a shit-ton Las Vegas, what will you destroy next? My love of cheap vodka and fart jokes? Will I soon find myself giving money to charity and helping the mentally retarded in my spare time? My reality has been twisted beyond recognition, I have no compass, no indication of what direction is up, I never really realized what an anchor big boobs were for my continued sanity. I am most certainly lost!
Anyway, i met this Irish guy last night, he was drunk and looking to score with and was angry that all the chicks were just looking for money and totally disregarded his, "fookin greeat har and pairfectly tooned stoomak mooscles." He did indeed have an impressive six pack, though I was unsure as to why he showed it to me (his "har" seemed nothing special to me, but I'm hardly an expert on such matters). So we got to talking, It turned out he was from Fairfax, VA, a place I onced lived (sorta) and we also liked drinking to excess. Irish was inordinately excited about 24 hour bars, but was equally fiery about the lack of "slooty Veegaus tail," on a Monday night at 4 AM.
It was at this point he begin to tell me his exploits in Ireland, fighting and drinking, chasing women, mostly other dudes' wives, thus the fighting. Getting jumped and having his "heed womped on sumthin tarribel." HE said american girls loved his accent, but I could barely understand it...but anyway, I got a call and had to leave.
I ran in to him an hour later, and he told me he had gotten a "fookin bloojaub" in the "Lu" from some hooker and it had cost him 300 bucks. I asked him how it was, and he said that his wife gave better head, but that was before she died in a car accident a year previous while pregnant with his unborn son.
end transmision.
Thanks a shit-ton Las Vegas, what will you destroy next? My love of cheap vodka and fart jokes? Will I soon find myself giving money to charity and helping the mentally retarded in my spare time? My reality has been twisted beyond recognition, I have no compass, no indication of what direction is up, I never really realized what an anchor big boobs were for my continued sanity. I am most certainly lost!
Anyway, i met this Irish guy last night, he was drunk and looking to score with and was angry that all the chicks were just looking for money and totally disregarded his, "fookin greeat har and pairfectly tooned stoomak mooscles." He did indeed have an impressive six pack, though I was unsure as to why he showed it to me (his "har" seemed nothing special to me, but I'm hardly an expert on such matters). So we got to talking, It turned out he was from Fairfax, VA, a place I onced lived (sorta) and we also liked drinking to excess. Irish was inordinately excited about 24 hour bars, but was equally fiery about the lack of "slooty Veegaus tail," on a Monday night at 4 AM.
It was at this point he begin to tell me his exploits in Ireland, fighting and drinking, chasing women, mostly other dudes' wives, thus the fighting. Getting jumped and having his "heed womped on sumthin tarribel." HE said american girls loved his accent, but I could barely understand it...but anyway, I got a call and had to leave.
I ran in to him an hour later, and he told me he had gotten a "fookin bloojaub" in the "Lu" from some hooker and it had cost him 300 bucks. I asked him how it was, and he said that his wife gave better head, but that was before she died in a car accident a year previous while pregnant with his unborn son.
end transmision.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Sometimes the Struggle leaves you fragile.
I saw a puppy get hit by a truck today, and I cried, a little bit.
Not really, I just thought that would be an interesting way to start today's mess. I met a girl today at my orientation for my new job as corporate whore #345443. The first thing I learned about her was that her last job was at hooters, and she had a cup size of 36 D. This girl was (is, unless she died in the last 5 hours) 5'4.2", short people always seem to round to the nearest tenth of an inch, much like I do when I talk about my penis. Anyway, at lunch she started talking to me about herself, (my x-factor working to it's fullest potential) and she told me she desperately wanted a boob job.
Now this girl maybe weighed 100lbs, and was, as far as I could tell, pretty fucking hot. The boobs were just the beginning, she had already laid out all the other myriad procedures she wanted done, lipo here and there, chin lift, etc.
She was (is) only 23.
This got me thinking about boobs, a topic I rarely waste much cognitive faculties deliberating. Not just boobs, but how much pressure there is for girls to be perfect. I would have fucked this girl sober, without even thinking of someone else, and she was convinced she was ugly, in need of surgical augmentation to be attractive.
I'm not an idiot, I have been aware of this issue for a while, i just forget sometimes how unaware people can be of themselves. We are so preoccupied with the paragonof perfection thrust upon us by the airbrushed media, that we can't see the beauty right in front of us, most often the beauty we posses inside ourselves. It is tragic and terrible.
On the other hand, maybe this girl's 36 D boobs hung to her knees outside a bra, or looked like cantlopes in a pair of gym socks, Who knows? I guess my point is, women spend as much money and endure as much pain as you can to make yourself look perfect. Because, in the end that's what I want. I want every girl I meet to have the exact same tits, ass and face. I want to make sure that every woman I fuck looks exactly the same, and that they are all so focused on their appearance that they have never read a book or done anything more interesting than bleach their assholes. Don't even consider going to the gym as an alternative to liposuction, an please, please, keep in mind that the natural, unique feel of a real breast is bullshit compared the the amazingly unnatural and disproportionate expeience of plastic boobery.
end transmission.
Not really, I just thought that would be an interesting way to start today's mess. I met a girl today at my orientation for my new job as corporate whore #345443. The first thing I learned about her was that her last job was at hooters, and she had a cup size of 36 D. This girl was (is, unless she died in the last 5 hours) 5'4.2", short people always seem to round to the nearest tenth of an inch, much like I do when I talk about my penis. Anyway, at lunch she started talking to me about herself, (my x-factor working to it's fullest potential) and she told me she desperately wanted a boob job.
Now this girl maybe weighed 100lbs, and was, as far as I could tell, pretty fucking hot. The boobs were just the beginning, she had already laid out all the other myriad procedures she wanted done, lipo here and there, chin lift, etc.
She was (is) only 23.
This got me thinking about boobs, a topic I rarely waste much cognitive faculties deliberating. Not just boobs, but how much pressure there is for girls to be perfect. I would have fucked this girl sober, without even thinking of someone else, and she was convinced she was ugly, in need of surgical augmentation to be attractive.
I'm not an idiot, I have been aware of this issue for a while, i just forget sometimes how unaware people can be of themselves. We are so preoccupied with the paragonof perfection thrust upon us by the airbrushed media, that we can't see the beauty right in front of us, most often the beauty we posses inside ourselves. It is tragic and terrible.
On the other hand, maybe this girl's 36 D boobs hung to her knees outside a bra, or looked like cantlopes in a pair of gym socks, Who knows? I guess my point is, women spend as much money and endure as much pain as you can to make yourself look perfect. Because, in the end that's what I want. I want every girl I meet to have the exact same tits, ass and face. I want to make sure that every woman I fuck looks exactly the same, and that they are all so focused on their appearance that they have never read a book or done anything more interesting than bleach their assholes. Don't even consider going to the gym as an alternative to liposuction, an please, please, keep in mind that the natural, unique feel of a real breast is bullshit compared the the amazingly unnatural and disproportionate expeience of plastic boobery.
end transmission.
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