Tuesday, August 29, 2006

I'm The Guy Dating Your Daughter

I know I look forty, which is not that big of a deal because that's how old I am. I drive a BMW. It's black with rims and a system. I met your daughter in the 7 Eleven parking lot last weekend when she was hanging out with some friends of hers. She was skipping school and I joked with her that she looked like a model and that I could take some pictures of her for my modeling agency if she was eighteen. She said she wasn't but I took the pictures anyway back at my trailer. She and her friends had a good time. We drank some wine coolers and listened to rap music until three when I drove her home. We made out in the driveway for a while, which was cool, but she wouldn't let me come up and see her room because moms was supposed to come home soon. That's no big deal, I'll see it tomorrow when I stop by with some roses. Moms is doing some volunteer work and will be out until six. I'm going to surprise her. I won't wear a shirt and that will usually take care of any second thoughts she might have. I have some tattoos you see. Girls like that, especially teenage girls. Maybe I'll wear a wife-beater and spill something on it so she can watch me take it off really slowly, like a male model. I've modeled a little and put the pics on the net hoping to get a contract. I've gotten some responses but they turned out to be scam stuff so I'm holding off on a few deals until I can get that sorted out. I need to go do some crunches. Laters.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

Just Look What Nice Abs Can Get You!

Some people date for love, some date as a result of mutual interests, but I prefer women who are into my looks and money. It isn't always easy letting a girl know that not only do I have a gorgeous face, but the body beneath the designer t-shirt is free of fat and chiseled beyong comprehension. Often times I have to flat you tell her, 'look, my name is Darren. I have a rad body, cut abs and my dad is really rich.' That pretty much breaks the ice immediately and sorts out any kind of girl who tries to pretend that she's looking for more than that, which is a bunch of crap because they all are. Some chicks are all like, 'well Darren, maybe you should go fuck yourself with a big role of your dad's money,' and I'm like, 'that's fucking lame you ugly lesbian.' It works out pretty well most times and I don't have to deal with too much shit because I'm so hot. I wear red swim trunks because they're kinda Baywatch, kinda lifeguardish, totally hot all the way through. I'm good looking. You probably aren't if you're reading this. HA HA!

Thursday, August 03, 2006

The Bum Rush

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

I Call This Mustache The Peacekeeper

Though my ridin' and ropin' days are done, I can still work the ranch as good as any other cowboy who ever lived. I grew a mustache as a young man and wore it proudly until it greyed and faded, just like the memories of my life have over the years. I ain't much of the man I was but the spark of life that fueled many a barroom battle has yet to extinguish. I hope that flame burns just a little longer so I can tell one last tale that needs to be told, if I can remember it all that is. The whole things started back when I was a handsome buck of about nineteen years of age, riding the circuit out in Montana and Wyoming, living the carefree life. Those were the days when a strong back and a pair of hard working hands were all you needed to make an honest living, not like the backstabbing faggotry that men are required to perform nowadays. I was riding an Appaloosa gelding at the time by the name of Fancypants, and boy oh boy did I love that horse. We spent more days than I could count wandering the clover valleys and lion's back ridges of those backwoods states and it was a sad day in my life when the horse up and collapsed one day and died. I whipped all hell out of Fancypants trying to scare away the demons come to take her to hell but she stayed dead and I stayed without a ride for some time. Anyways that was years after the story I'm telling happened, and that one starts with Fancypants and I pushing our way through a snowdrift up in Saddlestring Pass. It was too late in the year to be up that high but a fifth of sour mash had put enough fire in my shortleg to convince me that I might be able to make one last trip up to Sally McRatchet's alpine cabin for a roll in the hay. Old Sally was the type of woman who chose to live off the land as opposed to the fat sows in town who sucked off the teat of mankind, but being alone as she was, she was prone to getting what we used to call the 'carnal hunger.' It'd get so bad that her female parts would actually eat clean through her drawers. That might frighten some men but the more experienced one's will tell you that a crevasse with that level of eagerness is nothing to turn your nose at. Anyhow, Fancypants and I were in the snowdrift halfway through the pass when the temperature took a big drop, at least twenty degrees in an hour, and we found ourselves suddenly encased in a block of ice. It was mid-March before we thawed enough to bust loose of our nature-made encasement and by that point heading back to town sounded a little more appetizing than a romp with some old mountain woman. It was a good thing I felt that way too because when Fancypants and I finally hobbled our way into the saloon in Jackson Hole we learned that old Sally had skewered herself on some type of spindle apparatus and was dead as a doornail. I was mighty glad I didn't waste any time going all the way to her cabin because the bears had eaten most of her face, chest, breasts, neck and head before she was found on her homemade lovemaking contraption. 'Impaled' was the word those that found her had used but I found it a tad indelicate in reference to a lady. These days I think back about what might have been if I hadn't been frozen for all those months, Sally would be alive and I'd probably still have some feeling in my fingers and maybe I'd even have a son to take care of me in my old age. But it happened that way because that is how fate decided it should be and I ain't one to thumb my nose at fate.

This One Is Better...

For those of you who liked the last clip of the 285 slab of man, I think this one is even better:


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

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Words...

1. Shunt
2. Hoggle
3. Crotch
4. Blubber
5. Blumpkin
6. Moist
7. Intercourse
8. Flange
9. Flutie
10. Plump
11. Chunder
12. Swole

In Case You’re Wondering, These Legs Go All The Way Up

I’ve been told that these stems are worth their weight in gold and I tend to agree. Even though they have been carrying me around since the day I first dropped even I recognize just how bitchin’ they really are. My legs are not unlike my ass; perfect and full of wonder. Men have been worshiping this particular piece since I can remember and my memory goes back a long way. I got my first mini skirt about the time Kennedy got popped and I have been wrapping my ass in eight inches of fabric ever since. The boots only accentuate my legs and being called ‘fuck-me boots’ doesn’t hurt either. I do have to point out one drawback to wearing knee high fuck-me’s: they cover up my absolutely delicious calves, which is a loss. That much divine flesh, even covered by sexy boots, is a tragedy of almost epic proportions. There is currently a bill being passed through congress which, if passed, will force 7-Eleven to allow me to enter their store without shoes or shirt because I am so fucking hot. Two congressmen bought my used underwear from my online store. I also have half-smoked cigs and dirty socks available for those interested. On a more serious note I have to announce that I will no longer be performing the bathroom segment of my live webcasts despite their wild popularity. If you’d like to know why, you should call up Jim Krupa of the Office of Health and Human Services and ask him. Instead I have worked out a new bit where I strip down to the boots and dump a bottle of extra-virgin olive oil over my body. I then drop into the full splits, letting the boot heels scrape across the hardwood until my groin area smacks the ground. This makes a sound like a toilet plunger being sloshed into a loaded toilet bowl, which should make some of you happy. If the sound doesn’t get you, the visuals definitely will, because nothing makes a man stand at attention like a hot bitch covered in oil with her thighs wrenched so far apart the tendons in her hips groan like green tree boughs about to snap. It’s these extra’s that makes me so popular, I’m convinced of it. I just don’t think the young women of today know the value of a little self-degradation for the satisfaction of a man. They will learn though, when the men all come to women like me and those perky little asses are left high and dry. There’s a reason I wear this skirt, you know. My scent attracts young bucks like clover to a honey bee.