Wednesday, July 26, 2006

I'm A Fucking Beefeater!


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

This Is Buzz And He Doesn't Wipe


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

What The Fuck Am I?





















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

Butt Rape Under The Big Top


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

I, Pakistani Man



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.

I Think Three Six Mafia Said It Best...

Slob on my knob... like corn on the cob.
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

Beards, Jesus and Full Extension Pushups


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!