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.
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.
Ralph is awesome. Ralph can drink. Ralph ralphs too, usually on the bar, but not always. There was this one time he ralphed all over a display of organic coffee at Starbucks. We did a few shots at Applebees and went over there to get an ice green tea frappe and the guy just lost it on a cardboard cutout of a Guatemalan coffee grower who was smiling and trying to look like he wasn't being exploited. The puke hit that farmers face like a bowl of clam chowder that was sitting in the sun all afternoon. It wasn't cold in that Starbucks but I swear to you that STEAM was wafting off that spray of potato skins and Makers Mark. One of the girls behind the counter dumped a big foamy mug of hot milk all over her chest and this guy in a Bass Hunter hat said he was going to jack off to that in his truck on the way home. It was pretty sweet even though I never got that frappe.