I Can Do Anything I Want, Forever.

And never, ever feel bad about it.

Why? Because no matter what I do, for the rest of my life, I'll always fell better than this guy...

(Taken from bash.org's random quotes.)

One night home from the bars, which aside from the occasional pizza place the only other thing open was this porno store. I'm not sure why - I think one of my friends wanted to buy a magazine - but we went in, and annoyed the shop's patrons by picking up every ridiculous sex toy and laughing about it loudly. The most absurd thing we found was a large plastic beer can - meant to look like "Coors Light," or something, but much larger - and when you unscrewed the cap at the top, there was a latex vagina inside, that you were meant to stick your dick in and fuck the can. Well, not really "fuck" the can, exactly, but masturbate with it.
So of course we have to buy the beer can vagina, because we're drunk and it's funny, and we figure we'll find some entertaining unintended use for it. So we paid for it and continued on our merry way back to the hotel. Once there we said our goodbyes and retired to our rooms, and I realized that somehow I'd gotten stuck carrying the bag from the sex store. I set it down on the desk and didn't think much about it. That is, for a few minutes, until I found myself sitting on the bed in my hotel room, drunk and lonely and sexually frustrated, and I kept staring over at that stupid beer can vagina.
"Maybe I should just try it. Just see what it feels like..." I mean, why not, right? You know. Just for kicks, right? So you know what? I fucked it. Yeah. I fucked a plastic beer can. I fucked the shit out of that can. And you know what? It felt alright. It did the trick. That is, until it was all over. Until the moment after, when I was hit by a sobering freight train of humility, looking down at my dick stuck inside a latex vagina housed in a plastic beer can. Moments like that you start to question everything - "How the hell did it come to this? Who am I? What am I doing with my life?" I probably sat there for an hour, silently with my plastic lover, pondering my existence.
The next morning, when the subject of the previous night came up and someone said, "oh, where's that funny beer can thing we got? Rob, you had it, right?" And everyone looks at me, and I just stare at them for a moment, and then say, "...I fucked it. I fucked it and I hated myself, and now it's gone." There was a slight pause, followed by uproarious laughter. The ridicule took months to subside.

See?

You're always better than someone else.

Have an awesome weekend...

I Think I'm In Love With An American's Wife.

Just so you know.

Why?

Because she gave me this:

Chocolate Peanut Butter Cheesecake:

Ingredients:
1 (11 oz.) package Peanut Butter and Chocolate Chips
6 tablespoons butter or margarine, melted
1 1/4 cups sugar
1 tsp. vanilla extract
2 eggs
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 tbs. all-purpose flour
1/3 cup Cocoa Powder
1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt3
3 (8oz.) packages softened cream cheese
3/4 cup sugar
3 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1/2 tsp. shortening

Directions:
1. Heat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease 9-inch springform pan. Set
aside 2 tablespoons chips.

2. Stir together butter, sugar, and vanilla in large bowl with spoon
or wire whisk. Add eggs; stir until well blended. Stir in flour,
cocoa, baking powder and salt; blend well. Spread in prepared pan

3. Bake 25 - 30 minutes or until base begins to pull away from side
of pan.
In the meantime, make cheesecake layer:
Beat 3 packages softened cream cheese and 3/4
cups sugar until smooth in large mixer bowl. Add 3 eggs, one at a
time, beating well after each addition. Stir in 1 teaspoon vanilla
extract.

4. Immediately after removing base from oven, sprinkle remaining
chips over brownie surface. Spoon cheesecake mixture over chips.
Return to oven; continue baking 45 - 50 minutes or until almost set.
Remove from oven to wire rack. With knife, loosen cake from side of
pan. Cool 2 hours; cover. Refrigerate 3 - 4 hours or until
thoroughly chilled. Remove side of pan.

5. Combine 1/2 teaspoon shortening and reserved 2 tablespoons chips
in small microwave-safe bowl. Microwave at High 30 seconds; stir. If
necessary, microwave at High 15 seconds at a time, stirring after
heating, until chips are melted ad mixture is smooth when stirred.
Drizzle over top of cheesecake. Store, covered in refrigerator.

Mmmmmm...

"A Perfect Exit Ruined"

*Entry into a flash-fiction short story compo. Thought I'd share...*


You know that moment when a girl walks past, and she has an ass like an onion? That sweet, round, bring-tears-to-your-eyes shape that make you want to walk right up, say hello, and bite it like a bulldog lapping porridge?

Yeah me neither.

Picture it:
The jeans with cuts in them that could only have come from an Italian’s couture scissors, that little cotton body-hugger top riding all the way up and not going nearly enough (but thank God not) down to her navel, the back dimples swaying just above a thin piece of elastic that sure as shit wouldn’t stay up there if it weren’t for the perfect crunchy-apple bulge of her booty pushing hard against the tight-like-a-tiger jeans...

A femmé fatale, if you will. Carved from the purest ‘hot’, guaranteed to make you lose your shit faster’n Michael J Fox playing jenga.

Bitch.

Well, that was my first thought.

But as that head turned, the eyes looked, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a crinkly little smile carved by one of the ninja turtles; I thought maybe I was wrong. Maybe this ‘bitch’, this Miss Priss wasn’t like the rest of them. Maybe, just maybe her smile was genuine ‘happy’, not mind-numbing apathy.

She stopped. That smile. Oh my sweet lordy. She bent, ever so slightly forward, as I took a sip of my bourbon. Fine ass bourbon too, none of that cheap-ass twenty Rand Bushmills crap that Fox Lounge couldn’t even give away. It burned my lips with tasty fire, as her peachy-keen breasts swelled a little, burning my eyes with an incredibly sensitive yet erotic metaphor that I can’t think of right now.

I figured my time had come. This was it. The subtle ‘chink’ as the cash register of my life came crashing open. The feeling that maybe, just maybe, tonight was my night…

As the torn-jean crunchy-apple back-dimples from heaven turned and swayed away, I just plain stared. Desperate to soak up every single atom of that perfect getaway.

Then I looked down at the tattered paper cup between my legs.

Fifty fucking cents.

Cheap-ass whore.

Can’t a guy in a wheelchair get a break?

It’s Never Good To Chunder On A Girl You’ve Just Undressed.

I’ve been dating.

Shocking as this may seem, a girl actually lowered her standards enough to go out with me.

Awesome.

She’s cute, smart, challenges me, gets on well with my friends, and strangely enough – really seems to like me. I certainly shouldn’t complain.

This weekend was a bit of an unfortunate turning point in my life however. We’d been seeing each other for about two weeks, and being the gentleman that I am, managed to not try get her kit off in the first 5 minutes. I waited, made sure it was a mutual decision, and then leapt into bed like a fat kid after a Mars Bar.

Things were progressing nicely - clothes were flying across the bedroom, breaths were getting breathless, hands were exploring parts that hands like to explore… In my mind I pretty much kept going ‘Wooooo.’

Now.

A boy never really knows exactly what to expect when he slides his hand sensually up a girl’s thigh, right to the top bit. Will it be a crinkly, curly adventure through the undergrowth? Will it be a slick, sliding adventure into parts waxed and unknown? Perhaps even a slightly stubbly experience, a moment of discovery mixed ever so slightly with the semi-sweet emotions of ‘Hmm, she could have at least freshened up.’

What a boy definitely doesn’t expect is to discover, amongst the slickly waxed split-mounds, is a slightly throbbing, fleshy extrusion; roughly about the length of your index finger.

To slide your hands in between a girls legs, up into that dampened area, open her up like a delicate flower, and have a fucking Mopani worm poke it’s head out.

Not. Cool.

Now I’m not a total sexual illiterate. I understand that when girls get fired up and excited, a certain bit of her fills with blood and engorges slightly.

But sweet Jesus’ing Buggery Fuck – ‘slightly’ is the operative word.

With the bile rising and my manhood deflating faster than a really fast deflating thing, I stopped. Double checked. Hoped to everything good and pure, and checked again. Nope. Still there…

Shiiiiiiiiiiit.

Not only do I have a sinking suspicion that this awesome-fantastic new girl in my life suffers from a serious case of clitaromegaly*, but it appears there’s an even more depressing problem on the horizon…

I think hers is bigger than mine.


Sad face.
- crayola dude.

*I googled it. ‘It’ has a name. :(

I Think I Am Mildly Grumpy And Allergic To Stupid Sluts.

Well, slut a harsh word. But it’s a harsh old world, so walk it off, nancy. Although maybe, just maybe, I should re-phrase that to ‘I’m allergic to people I cannot and do not wish to relate to in any way, so please leave me alone while I’m trying to do a CI Manual. Thanks, and please come again. Or rather, don’t.”

I guess it starts off with listening. If you expect me to be a good listener, then please take the time to listen what I have to say as well.

Don’t ask me how I’m doing, and when I tell you about a friend that has just died, or baby that has just been born, or an awesome new job that I have just got, cut me off to tell me how completely plastered you’re going to get at the Dros with your friends that night, just like every other night in your life. Do this every time you speak to me, and I will tell you how I do not have time for self-centred, self-absorbed tarts looking to rack up my friends like they’re Kauai smoothie stickers on a frequent-sipper card.

Also, if I do tell you this, and make no effort to ‘stay in touch’ or ‘keep being friends', then do NOT send me shit like this:


Vapid Tart: I trust you had a good weekend!

Me: Of course I did. I haven’t spoken to you in two weeks.

Vapid Tart: LOL What you mean?

Me: Nevermind.

Vapid Tart: Okay. Well aren’t you going to ask me how my weekend was?

Me: Fine. How was your weekend?

Vapid Tart: I’m too scared to answer your question.

Me: What?

Vapid Tart: You will hold it against me again.

Me: Oh for fuck sakes.

Vapid Tart: Well you always do :)

(It was the smiley face here that pushed me over the edge. I could just picture her grinning stupidly to herself and making ‘hyuk-hyuk’ noises to herself, a lá goofy.)

Me: You mean have I absolutely no interest in hearing about your weekend of picking up random men for a casual scrumple in the McDonalds toilets outside News Café, because you will ignore everything I say anyway, and blather on about your pointless, gin-soaked evening as though I, to be blunt, give a fuck; and tend to remind you of this every time you blabber on about your pointless, gin-soaked and more-than-likely crab-strewn self?

Vapid Tart: Hahahah you type so weirdly. So you coming to join us for drinks on Friday?

Me: Oh sweet Jesus.

Vapid Tart: It’ll be fun I’m so keen to just get hammered.

Me: Did it ever occur to you that I have no interest in ever been seen out in public with you ever again, and regret ever giving you any of my contact details every single time I see your name in my inbox or your number on my phone? And the only reason I’m even typing a reply is that I’m bored out of my skull, and have nothing better to do?

Vapid Tart: LOL of course not! We’re friends! :)

And so it goes...

Tell me, dear reader. Is there any way to get rid of an obnoxious, vacuous, flatheaded carbuncle of a woman without actually slapping the bitch upside the head? I really don’t want to do that, on account of how it means I’ll actually have to, you know, touch her.

Urgh.