Thursday, November 09, 2006
Fuck Steven Tyler.
Fuck Joe Perry.
Fuck the other guys in the band whose names no one knows.
Fuck their stupid fucking music.
Fuck every dumb album they've made, especially Honkin' On Bobo.
Fuck whoever came up with Honkin' On Bobo.
Fuck anyone who actually likes Aerosmith's shitty music.
Fuck big lips on a lead singer.
Fuck the radio stations that still play Aerosmith all the fucking time.
Fuck Steven Tyler's stupid daughter.
Fuck her for speaking Elvish.
Fuck the movie Be Cool because Steven Tyler is in it, plus it's a dumb movie.
Fuck the fact that Steven Tyler is alive and Steve McQueen is dead.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
You might be sitting there, wondering to yourself whether or not I possess the ability to pass on these genes god blessed me with. Well, I'm here to tell you that I can. Right between these slender thighs is about three pounds of swinging meat, just aching for the chance to repopulate the globe in the event of a nuclear holocaust or some kind of wierd virus that wipes out all the healthy males but me. I can impregnant females until I die. Nature made me that way. Why? Because men, like myself, need to be able to spread their seed. It gives us the ability to select suitable females into a herd, or pack if you will, from which we can choose our nightly bedmates. I usually choose two at a time because this doubles my chances at having many, many, many, many children. Sons hopefully! Being a bold alpha male, I am forced to dominate those around me. As a result the females are drawn to both my masculine strength and my musk. It is sometimes necessary for me to drive off young males who would like to steal females from my pack. This is normal and usually occurs around spring break. The females go into a sex crazed frenzy when I return to the pack, dripping with the blood and sweat of my foe, my chest heaving with lust. I have a penis and it was made to impregnate females. Who am I to withstand the force of nature within my loins?
Monday, October 30, 2006
I think I'll go for the part-time gig...40 hours of tossing salad each week seems a bit much.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Saturday, October 21, 2006
High school was a time of wonder for Plumfugger, though there was a period of his life when he could not have been convinced that it could be. The trouble started around the time of his tenth birthday, when he began to realize that he was not like other boys. He had feelings of emotion that the others didn't seem to have and his voice came with a lisp that seemed beyond the powers of any therapist to correct. It was a dark time for Plumfugger and much of his time was spent weeping under his bed, dressed in one of his mother's old evening gowns. It wasn't until he stumbled into a dance studio that his life took a turn for the better, and the hours spent sobbing in darkness were soon spent training his lithe young body to become an instrument of grace and beauty.
Everything was looking up for Plumfugger by the time he reached his sophomore year at Nagalfar High School; he was captain of the jazz dance team, he wore tank tops every day and there were two boys on the soccer team who didn't call him a fag. He was on his way. The joy of a life going successfully rang out across the football field as the other boys suited up in pads smashed into each other and Plumfugger squealed with joy, praising God for making something as sublimely handsome as a male ass. It was then that a voice crackled across the sky, silencing everything, the football team, the coaches, the birds, even the cheerleaders who were practicing on the sidelines of the field. Everyone froze in place, electrified by the words vibrating through the air like a living thing.
It took a while for things to go back to normal, but in time, they did. Years later, most of those who had been there that day barely remember the incident, as if it blurred from their minds like newsprint in the rain. Maybe it never held any importance in the first place. They went about their lives, living as they had before the voice had come. All that is, except for Plumfugger. He decided to remember those words and remember them he did. In dance. Using the words to be his music, he danced his heart out, hoping that in some small way, his dance might show the beauty of God that he had known one October day. Unfortunately, no one really got it and thought he was just this wierdo dancing around like an idiot.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Anyone out there got a death wish? Huh? You looking at this fucking color guard? You better not be unless you want to get stabbed with one of this swords or take a nice rifle butt to the skull. You take a butt-strike to the chin and you are going to be knocked the fuck out, it doesn't matter if the gun is yellow and made of plastic, these individuals wield it like it's the real thing. See those swords? They aren't sharp and they have plastic knobs on the end but they can still carve your still-beating heart right out of your cowardly chest. You know, if it comes to that. Being in a color guard isn't just about twirling shit around, it's about maintaining some ground and fighting to the death to protect it. Even if it is just a twelve square-foot section of basketball court near the free throw line. The color guard has the duty and the priviledge to be a force of power and prestige within an academic institution, and they alone have the cajones to repel attacks from rebel forces. You might ask where the color guard was at Columbine, and that would be a fair question, but no... fuck you! That color guard was out on the track practicing one arm take-downs and shoulder rolls. They were blasting Metallica's One so fucking loud they couldn't hear the gunfire. If they had, that day would have ended very differently. The trench coat mafia would have themselves the victims of a fullisade of vicious butt-strikes and twirling streamers, all delivered with the precision and grace which are the trademarks of a high school color guard. I hope for your sake that you never make the mistake of referring to a color guard team a 'dance team.' They are para-military squads that move under the clever guise of unoffending synchronized dancers. What better way to infiltrate, assess and eliminate?
Friday, October 06, 2006
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
I went to Macy's yesterday and asked the clerk if whale tails were on sale and he said that if I was looking for what I thought he was looking for he was going to call security, and anyway I was in the men's suit section and he wouldn't know.
I guess I'm just like Captain Ahab, searching for a white whale tail so I can photograph it from a distance and add it to my collection. Captain Ahab with a high-powered camera and mirror sunglasses.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
I know I'm not the only one who is sick of seeing these guys with these stupid signs standing around wanting money for nothing. Unfortunately for them, the signs tell me two things about them that does not help their cause; they are not very hungry if they are still making jokes and the mere fact that they own a huge Sharpie lends to the fact that they aren't hurting that badly for money. If they are so down on their luck, why go out and buy a $4 marker? Maybe there is one big Sharpie that they all use but I truly doubt it. Homeless seem to keep to themselves and don't really work together because if they did they could form a homeless union and send delegates to the state senate to appropriate money for fresh needles and cardboard boxes. These people hound everyone with clean pants walking down the street and seem to think that anyone who actually seems to have a purpose for being on the sidewalk in a metropolitan area has plenty of extra funds to support their drug habits. They do not want money for food because they line up around the block for free meals every day. If you are ever hungry yourself, just ask a bum where the nearest soup kitchen or meal cart is and they will tell you three different options within a five block radius. With that in mind, cast your thoughts back to the last skinny bum you have ever seen. Can't recall one can you? Even the crack heads are fat. Go figure that one out. They eat more meals than your average housewife and still get more exercise. The biggest worries a homeless person faces is finding the next bottle or fix and trying not to pass out where they can be lit on fire. Occasionally the news will run a story about a homeless person who freezes to death and everyone will be momentarily upset about their plight but that is in the absence of the true facts. Homeless people living out in the elements are those who choose not to spend their nights in a bed at a shelter because they cannot drink or do drugs in a shelter. They would rather spend the night out in freezing weather than go without a drink or a pipe and that is a fact. Homeless people have been known to trade their coats for drugs even when the temperature is in the single digits. That is how bad their addictions are and while it is sad that they are that deeply in the grips of a chemical craving I have yet to hear of person who was forced to become an addict at gunpoint. Every one of these people has a sad story to explain their situation but nothing is an excuse to becoming a parasite of society and an eyesore to all. There are always those who stand up for the rights of homeless, championing their cause to allow them to live on city streets across the country, but why is it that these people who argue so strongly for homeless are not seen sweeping up the trash they leave in parks and doorways they inhabit? They do not mind that every public park within a major metropolitan area is almost completely unused by the general public because the drunk and drugged-out homeless who descend on these areas and cover them in trash? People who work all morning in a cramped office are not about to take their lunch in the park next door because they will be treated to harassment by stinking druggies looking for a handout or a screaming match between two drunks fighting over a bottle of wine. A great place to enjoy a ham sandwich. All this being said, there are those who are so mentally deranged that they cannot care for themselves in even the most basic ways and should not be left to their own devices. These people, who are generally not seen with witty signs asking for money, should be institutionalized because they are danger to themselves. Unfortunately for them, they have some wonderful people who care so much about them that they have fought to free them from state care and give them the right to be out on the streets. So until they die or hurt someone else, they are free to live in filth and eat garbage. These are the people who deserve compassion and help, but rarely receive it. That is why when you see some idiot standing on a corner with a funny sign they should be the last person you open your wallet for, it is the guy with no shoes and blackened feet that needs the dollar.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
This is a taste of what his yahoo group has to offer (I didn't fuck with the spelling either) :
This group is for Narcissistic bodybuilders (love of or sexual desire for one's own body) Muscle men who worship themselves in a mirror daily and want to express your total Narcissism of your own body. Bodybuilders who find that they are sexually turned on to themselves and are only satififed by admiring their own incredable built masculine muscles or mutually with other Narcissistic bodybuiders. This is for men who get into and off on themselves an like to share their bodys with others who want to admire their body as much as they do themselves. Feel free to talk about your Narcissistic feelings about youself and what its like to be a bodybuilder who is in love with his own body. I am what turns me on, my thick massive size. my strength, I can be all my muscle fantasys. My stats are current an acturate.Here's some good comments too, my favorite is the second because the comments are on the guy's yahoo group page:
Hey, man, The body is great. The attitude is masculine. The total package is manly and virile. You're morphing YOURSELF in real-life, bro, you hardly need
That's really hot man. I feel the same way about myself. nothing like getting pumped up & kooling in the mirror. Do you have a yahoo group?
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
She was the lady of the faire...
The thong she wore was in disrepair...
So mend it I did with threads of my codpiece...
And trimmed it out with strips of fleece...
The mating we had was so very good...
In the deep piney wood she road my wood...
Betrothed to another she gave only anal...
Though I don't see how I lost out in the deal...
Rays of starlight twinkled in her eyes...
As she gazed from betwixt my thighs...
Enchanted was I at that beautiful sight...
Her skin I saw was so milky white...
A Beefeater I am called because that's what I am...
She showed me her tits on a webcam...
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Working as a fishing guide brings me into contact with all types of personalities on a daily basis. From the uptight executive to the beer guzzling middle-age software techs, I see them all. I enjoy my ability to interact with people from all walks of life as if they are equals, even if they are complete lowlife scumbags, which they often are. Being good looking, I have a unique obligation as an ambassador of attractiveness, trying to show them that I am both a good looking man as well as an effective fishing guide. So I wear several hats, so to speak. I just want you to know a little bit about me. What it is to inhabit my particularly tan skin.
One of the difficulties that arises when I do my job is that my friendly and outgoing personality is often misconstrued as a sign of true friendship by the clients of my charter service. I equate this to the problems faced by Hooters Girls and strippers where the patrons of their establishments cannot grasp the concept that they are actually paying for these people to pretend to like them. When I first started working as a guide it seemed to be common sense that after the boat hit the dock and the gear was unloaded, I was no longer obligated to be friendly towards the people I'd taken out that day. Boy was I wrong about that. It didn't take long before I learned just how uncomfortable things could get when I ran into these guys over at the Cook Shack Bar and Grill after work.
The Shack is my favorite hang out and being situated near the docks the guys who I guide usually wind up there sooner or later. More often than not these idiots have been drinking most of the day and the beer has made them friendlier than usual. Because of this they often come over and try to hang out with me, expecting me to be as friendly and genuine as I was on the boat when I was vying for a bigger tip. Now that I am off the clock and trying to hook up with the babes that frequent the Shack, these old dudes really jam things up for me. I usually try to play things off or just make fun of them in front of the girls until they get the hint and go away, saying things like 'this is Boner and he shit his pants on my boat today.' That line usually works because the girls laugh at them until the dude gets embarrassed and leaves, but sometimes if they are really drunk I am forced to get really intense about things. Spilling a drink on the crotch of their pants usually works in this situation, but if that fails I go to Defcon Two, which is 'accidentally' elbowing the bottom of their beer bottle while they're drinking from it. I have yet to reach Defcon One. No matter what I have to do to get a little breathing room at the Shack it is still not cool for dudes to impose on my game, therefore they get what they deserve. It has not escaped my attention that I have virtually no repeat clients, which is the bread and butter of the guiding business, but I truly do not care. I get numbers when I am at the Shack, and as we all know, numbers equal handjobs.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Maybe you can help me because I am at a total loss as to my sexual identity. I have the soft, rosy lips of a German maiden, but the closely cropped hair of a strapping young man. My plain white t-shirt suggests I am a black man but the baby soft skin of my face seems to be that of an eighteen year old Swedish bar maid. I keep trying to look between my legs to find out for sure but of course I can't because I am just a stupid photograph. I have no sexual identity it seems, but that might not be so bad. I can move between both hemispheres of gender with ease, using any and all restrooms I want. I can freely enter the changing rooms of any public swimming pool and enjoy the view while going unnoticed and unchallenged. Just think for a moment how good of a bank robber I could be. Without so much as a mask I could so befuddle those I am robbing that any positive identification would be impossible. How can the police hunt for a suspect when they are not even positive of the gender? I am really starting to enjoy the idea of being a complete sexual non-entity. Of course, dating is going to be something of a trick, but seeing as how even I don't know what I am it is going to be quite the exciting evening for some lucky bisexual. I wouldn't even be able to give a hint as to what I am until my jeans are torn from my shapeless body.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
A good majority of people who have been raped by clowns are not amused by them anymore. I can attest to the revulsion felt by those who have been brutally attacked by these seemingly harmless and childlike people because I too suffered an encounter which I have mostly blocked from my memory. Only flashes of what occurred continue to tumble around in my head, but those haunting images have seared my very soul. I can still hear the laughter, the disgusting panting and the incessant honking of the big bulb nose as the clown satisfied himself. Luckily, I don't recall the money shot. Now when I see clowns I feel the frustrated sickness envelope me in a cloud that is as inescapable as death and as revolting as man-on-man, lube-free sex in a Eurovan in the blinding mid-summer heat of an East Texas July afternoon. Of course, I may have been partially to blame for what happened to me, but I still do not think wearing cut off jean shorts and a tummy shirt is any excuse for what followed. Though I now believe that had I picked anything else off my closet floor that day I might have avoided an unpleasant date with destiny. I have heard rumors that clowns are on the move, leaving the saftey they find in larger urban centers and descending upon quiet, helpless towns. This must be stopped. If you decide to kill one, before they die I want you to tell them Buff Tan Honky sends his regards.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
In Pakistan we do not have such women with the bright white skin like America. I like to see them in the light of candles and smoky incense when the thong is up above the pants. These women are so pale that they look like great big toadstools with flowing yellow hair. I talk to them and I become so nervous my moustache becomes heavy with sweat and when I talk put one hand on my hip because that is the way of a Pakistani man. One time a woman of white skin placed her hand on my shoulder when I am having food at a Mexican restaurant. She asks me for a refill of margarita drink in punchbowl and I laugh so hard because I cannot because I am not a worker of restaurant. She becomes embarrassed at my handsome face and is unable to look to me anymore. Her friends laugh as I ask her to dinner again and again but they are shy like schoolgirls and run away. I grew angry and want to show her how a Pakistani man cannot be laughed upon but they are fast and lithe like thick, pale gazelles. Tomorrow I am to spend time at community college to meet the girls. I sometimes stand by classroom and smoke to appeal the women. They know I am a handsome Pakistani man. At party we go uninvited and stand with whites and talk to only ourselves so why do we go? Ha ha ha. In Pakistan we court women by hiding behind sofa and watching her with big eyes of the Pakistani man. I see large pale white woman I think of large dowry and the penis of this Pakistani man becomes hard like the ivory we use to make small ornametal chess pieces as children. I do not own a rickshaw but have taxi which is same.
Check in with me... and do your job.
Lay on the bed... and give me head.
Don't have to ask... don't have to beg.
Juicy is my name... sex is my game.
Let's call the boys... let's run a train.
Squeeze on my nuts.
Lick on my butt.
The natural curly hair... please don't touch.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
There are a few things that need to be said about beards before any real attention should be paid to the man in the photo. First, it is important to realize that beards are effective disguises for those whose identities need protection. A dense copse of hair shielding the lower half of one's face is the best way to avoid being notice by authorities if under active pursuit, though once your identity is discovered it will be necessary to remove the beard because it does make one stand out in a crowd, especially if the beard is exceptionally long or lusterous. Secondly, a beard can be an attractive addition to a man's face if well groomed and if the growth is sufficiently thick to provide a full masculine coverage of hair. Thin, wispy beards that grow in mosaic patches are never found appealing by anyone except by cripples who have had their eyes poked out (they are out there, take a look for yourself.) The last thing that needs to be mentioned about beards is that if you are a homely person to begin with, a beard will only mask half of your ugliness, which, as we all know, is never enough. In reference to the man in the photo, it is not incredibly difficult to surmise the reasons behind the incredibly long, bi-colored mat of hair growing beneath his eyes; he is Jesus and he can do whatever the fuck he wants. If you are a religious person you know deep within yourself that you are peering into the haunted eyes of a man who has been reborn, yet again, into a world of ugliness and torment. He is said to have already died once for our sins, and being drug back down to Earth to see just how massively his efforts were misinterpreted has got to go a long way towards wrecking the guy's day. It is interesting that those who are devoted Christians envision Jesus as a beautiful man with radiant skin and hair, a set of square edged, pearly white teeth and a persistent glow of golden light around his head. I think common sense can dispell a majority of this as the over excited fantasies of his followers because it would have been difficult to find a single person walking around at that time with any one of these attributes let alone all of them rolled into one lucky person. Of course, the argument could be made that he was the son of God and therefore endowed with physical attributes that other men of that time did not possess. Taking that viewpoint as reality is it excessive to postulate that Jesus was incredibly fast as well? Was he capable of breaking the four minute mile mark almost twenty centuries before it would be done by a mere mortal man? Could he do the splits all the way to the ground without cheating? What about pullups? Even a handful of decent pullups is a challenge for an average man, but could he do twenty? Thirty? Forty? Of course, there is no way we could ever know, that is, unless we put the man in the photo to the test. If he really is Christ reborn then he should be able to do at least... two hundred pushups in five minutes. It seems a little uncouth to stand over the savior with a stopwatch and count out full extention, chest-to-the-ground pushups, docking him for each miss, but we have to be sure don't we? Isn't the future of mankind at stake? It would be pretty embarrassing to find out the living god we put at the helm is just Denny Maxwell of Gunnison, Colorado, a junior college drop out who liked to smell the purple magic marker in art class. Someone would be in deep shit if that went down. It is difficult to say how the subject of this article made its way to the present topic... but hey! Look at that guy's beard!
Thursday, June 22, 2006
There are few things in life that so readily create sexual desire like a nice bushy female underarm bristling with hair. The position of the hair under the arm, the armpit itself being quite crotch-like to begin with, makes this a secondary erogneous zone that even surpasses the breasts in their erotic appeal. Though some may scoff at this idea at first, few who have been nose deep in a mound of sweat-laden armpit hair have ever been so fully aroused in their lives. To understand this phenomena, one must simply try for themselves the delicate aroma found within. Of course, women with woolen armpits do not simply grow on trees, they must be cultivated from local health food stores and environmentalist meetings. Though elusive, these creatures can be quickly found based on the general flaxen look to their hair (a by-product of vegitarianism) and the general proximity of burning incense sticks. Now that the reader has a very basic knowledge as to the location of these highly desireable partners all that is required is to make a selection. Happy hunting!
Saturday, June 17, 2006
I thought of a few cool names that I'd rather have than the one found on my birth certificate. Feel free to use these to label your newborn as you see fit, of course using the provided surname is a requirement.
1. Bronson Jackworth
2. Chuckton Bruntley
3. Swole Fister
4. Boon Fuxley
5. Fingers Brohamptordly
6. Boost Manley
7. Milter Fruckton
8. Ronk Blessedly
9. Bruise Sweetly
10. Chunt Lister
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Few photos ever taken have captured such a tiered extravaganza of wonderous things to see as this. It is almost difficult to absorb everything that is happening here but I have to admit that while the woman's striated chest muscles are pretty amazing, the real jewel in this pic is the superhero in the pink headband. I'd like to think he's looking in a hand mirror at his hairdo, but I feel it is more realistic to assume he's looking through his fanny pack for another gold chain. Obviously taken at some kind of bodybuilding-health expo, this photograph is a great example of the types of people that can be seen at such events. I have actually been to one and the people watching, while not as amazing as what is shown in this picture, was worth the $10 admission fee. I saw juiced up bodybuilders in jean shorts that were little more than daisy dukes, mannish-female powerlifters getting pumped up to bench press, mullets beyond counting, spandex-aplenty and a hypnotized man strip to Elvis Presley. That was a magical day and I look forward to many more where I may be presented with a photographic opportunity such as the one posted here. Another interesting aspect of this photo is the man in the middle whose expression can only be described as 'troubled.' What I find interesting about him is that he is not actually looking at that freak in front but past her towards something that can only be worse than her, if that is even possible.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
There are few men who can handle the rigorous elimination process that precedes all inductions into the coveted Batboy Club of East St. Louis, but those who do join a brotherhood. The bonds that are formed during the hours of humiliation and degradation scar the psyche, but they also bring these young men closer, both mentally and physically, than they ever thought possible without the aid of lubrication. They are pushed to that edge, then shoved beyond in a grueling test of wills that matches cock against ass, dick against balls and teeth against urinal cake. These men come to the Batboy Club full of pride and strength, and while all eventually leave the hallowed Clubhouse, only 10% withstand the process to become full fledge members. The rest, those who are found wanting, are sent back to where they came from with an ice pack and a heart shaped card signed by each and every member, thanking them for their time. Tears are shed in parting, which is not at all unusual when men who have pitted themselves against one another in battles of the mind and of the flesh are forced to go their separate ways. Those who remain, however, cry tears of a different sort, those of pride and gratitude and anticipation of things to cum.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
The Pentagon is virtually a city in itself. The original site was nothing more than wasteland, swamps and dumps. 5.5 million cubic yards of earth, and 41,492 concrete piles contributed to the foundation of the building. Additionally, 680,000 tons of sand and gravel, dredged from the nearby Potomac River, were processed into 435,000 cubic yards of concrete and molded into the Pentagon form. The building was constructed in the remarkably short time of 16 months and completed on January 15, 1943 at an approximate cost of $83 million. It consolidated 17 buildings of the War Department and returned its investment within seven years. Stripped of its occupants, furniture and various decorations, the building alone is an extraordinary structure. Built during the early years of World War II, it is still thought of as one of the most efficient office buildings in the world. Despite 17.5 miles of corridors it takes only seven minutes to walk between any two points in the building.
Monday, May 15, 2006
After I work out I always enjoys a big tall glass of foamy whole milk to rejuvinate my muscles. The only problem is that after I get all hot and sweaty exercising, the cold milk hurts my teeth so much that it really takes a lot of the pleasure out of consuming it. I thought I had found a way around that by letting the milk sit out while I'm at the gym so it's more lukewarm instead of icy cold, but the milk tasted pretty sour after a few days of that. I put on my thinking cap and sure enough I came up with the perfect plan; I would put the cold milk through the coffee maker (without grinds of course, lol) and in that manner I would have a nice steaming cup of milk to enjoy each day! I came home the day after I dreamed up this ingenious plan and fired up Mr. Coffee, already pre-loaded with three cups of Darigold Whole Milk, my personal favorite. About ten minutes later I found a nice white brew bubbling in the pot, ready to drink. I poured myself a generous helping and took that first sip. What happened next can only be described as an extreme event in my life. I regurgitated the hot milk all over the naked, waiting breasts of my roommate's girlfriend, Heather. Her massive love globes were immediately scorched a bright red like a naughty, spanked little bottom. I apologized and she accepted, but things have been awkward between us ever since. Now I just drink the cold milk really, really slow. The way I like sex.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Do it Paco, punch my flapjack tits until I shoot the milk. You know how I like that rough, punchy-fuck sex. I'll lay them over the edge of the tub so they get sooooo long and flat that you can almost see through them. I know you like that and it gets you sooooo hard. You buy me a long bra to cover them long boobs and I love you so much for that I cook special dinner all week. You love the long boobs and I love the punching of the long, flat boobs. Respect my flapjack tits. They sooooo sore from punching but I want more punching on the flapjacks. Punch the fucking flapjacks if you want special dinner.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
So...do any of you bastards out there think I can take a punch? If I were a betting man I'd put a brand new FIFTY dollar bill down that I can. See this rugged complexion? Padding baby. The beard protects my chin, the glasses my eyes, the long hair adds a life saving layer over my ears, etc. This type of thing is something I have been planning for since I was twelve. That was the year Denny Myers beat me down on the playground like a fucking bitch. Yeah, I'll admit it, I went down like a sack of grain and wept like a girl, but times have changed since then and I changed along with them. I've cut the girlish fat off my body and along with it the loser mentality that clung to it like the stink following a log of shit. I've stripped it down to the bone homes. Some say I look like I did a five year stretch for molestation and came out better for it. I take that as a compliment. Being a man of iron means the rain may rust my surface but the integrity of my insides will never be compromised. So go ahead if you're feeling frisky, take your best shot. I'm ready for it. Are you?
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Snowbear is a man who knows what he's after. He also knows how to get it. Women with 'compact asses' and 'legs like a dancers' are his cup of tea and he scours the personal ads in search for these things. When he finds a likely candidate he fires them a brief email, something like 'This outdoorsy exercise-nut thinks you look mighty fine with that 'compact ass' and those 'legs like a dancers.' Coffee?' Something as simple as this baited with just the perfect photo has kept a smile on Snowbears bearded face. The photo, depicting Snowbear in his natural habitat of course, shows the sinewy frame of an athletically-toned gentleman reclining against the fallen stump of a tree. Clad in tight fitting jeans and a sleeveless, unbuttoned flannel vest, Snowbear seems at ease in his forest surroundings, almost blending in with the lush vegitation around him. On his feet he bears the traditional skins of the low woodland native, a pair of sleek, white sneakers complete with agressively treaded, basketball court marking, black soles. Women swoon at the sight of the man's toned muscles and bulging groin area as both promise hours of sensual pleasure. The real kicker, however, is the foot-long, snow white, Santa Clause beard that masks Snowbear's weak chin. Women dream of Snowbear running this beard across their naked breasts, the tantalizing softness only eclipsed by the tender kisses of the mouth hidden within. Snowbear is a powerful sexual being, so tread lighty when you find yourself in his neck of the woods.
Why does Vladimir Nabokov hold exclusive rights to the underage babe market? Because he's Russian and it is expected of the guy. It's no big shock when a chain smoking, low forehead Slav points to a twelve year old girl and descibes her as the 'fire of his loins' as Nabokov did in his controversial novel Lolita. Everywhere but in the United States and Canada it is completely acceptable to openly gape at the tan legs of a 4th grader. When will society learn that this is healthy and completely natural? There is nothing wrong with an old man's too-long hug or a more than friendly pat on the back that trails down across the top of the buttocks at the very last moment that might seem accident but is absolutely not. This is how old, weather beaten men show their affections! For this, they are treated as criminals and locked away, candy clenched in their arthritis crippled hands. Hands, that crave the delicate, tickling wonder of a child's damp hair, fresh from the plastic front yard pool he pulled them kicking and screaming from. Let them out of their unjust confinement and open your hearts to them. They will give more Granfatherly knee-rides than you could shake a stick at, all for the love of hot, hot underage babes. But not little boys though, they are awkward and they smell wierd most of the time.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
There is something about the penetration of a man’s ass that sets a select group of males on edge. They fear it, they wait for it, they seek out those who are interested in it. These men are not those who enjoy the act, rather, they fear and hate those that do. Crushing the hopes and dreams of homosexuals is their goal and they are good at what they do. “What are you looking at FAG?” This is their mantra and they repeat it until no one is able to forget it. Ever. Doug is one of these men. He seeks out homosexuals, or gays as some like to call them, and sends them a message from the other side of the fence; ‘You are NOT welcome.’ These same-sex deviants who ply their trade where we (breeders) live are now on the run. Doug is out and he is hunting for them. No same sex couple is going to rest easy knowing that confused men are out there trying to stop them from doing whatever they are up to (we don’t want to know the details.)
Friday, March 10, 2006
Meet John. John has a nice set of balls on him and his asshole is pretty great too. I didn't know that when I first met the guy but I sure know that now. Boy do I ever. As a guy who enjoys fishing, you'd think a fishing trip with a couple of fellow fishing enthusiasts would be a great way to spend a weekend. You know, drink a few beers, have a few laughs, tell some amusing stories, even make a reasonable effort to catch some of the elusive walleyes plying the waters beneath the epic Grand Coulee dam. That's what you'd think. But that's not what happened. After a frigid night spent on a gravel penninsula where there was constant bitching and not much in the way of bites from fish I woke up in a stiflingly hot motel room in Coulee City to the site you see in the photo. Nuts pulled tight between the legs so each precious egg of life was standing out in stark relief, spread ass with hemorrhoids puckering the sweet, sweet anus, it was almost too much to take. Starting to draw in a deep breath I was stopped cold by a long, soothing fart sputtering out of John's ruined backside. Fighting back the bile rising in my throat I did the only thing a normal person would do in that situation; I snapped a picture so I could enjoy that moment forever. Now you can too. Unfortunately you won't be able to experience the unbearable heat of the room, or the wierd odor, but feast your eyes for a while. I know I did.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
When I go out, I get dressed to the "nines." Of course, there are a few rules when hitting a nightspot like Applebees or The Iron Horse. Your shirt must be crisp, clean, black and tucked in firmly so that no material 'billows' about the waist. Because the shirt is tucked in there must be a belt. Leather is always preferred but not required. If you have a cell phone and your pants are too tight, an unsightly bulge in the pants should always be avoided (unless it's front and center) so a holster must be used. Clipping a cell phone holster the the belt is very stylish and as with the belt, leather material is preferred but not required. You must use a wallet chain to hold the wallet in place and be sure to use the long, check book style wallet. The long wallet gives the impression of extreme wealth. Since that front pocket can't sit empty, it is the perfect place to insert the pocket knife with the metal clip sticking out. The benefits of this are twofold; the knife is handy in the event of a fight and it shows anyone nearby that you have a knife at their disposal in case they need to cut open an envelope or trim a hangnail. All that's left to do is purchase a pair of white, high-top sneakers and grow a nice flowing Kentucky Waterfall to dust your shoulders.