A Lesson in Metaphorical Poon-Pounding and Spiritual Laser Surgery

When everything that moves is a blur, and seconds feel like hours, the only thing that equates a long ass work day is a dude pounding your ass who just won’t cum. Where’s the fucking lube when ya need it? 

Going from working until midnight last night to getting up at 5am to take a shit, and then having to go back into work at 6:45 is not my idea of a great weekend. And yet somehow I have time to write this shit. Shit that no one really reads yet is there for the reading should some poor asshole burden themselves with the task. But if the mantra “there’s always someone out there who’s got it worse than you” is true, and not some parental queef spoon fed to spoiled little shits everywhere…then I must be one unappreciative prick. Not that I give a hoo-ha.

Yesterday’s opening thoughts went something like this: “Go Fuck Yourself” and “I could really go for a pineapple upside-down cake”. I’ve yet to acquire said cake, and I still feel like I haven’t told enough people to go fuck themselves. Unfortunately, even in this town, a place where rich, snooty college kids whose parents literally pay for everything, the place where I work denies my any such liberty, lest I want to be fired. I work at a convenient store…in the facilities and stock and inventory department. I’ve worked there for the last five or six months…and I get the feeling that the only thing convenient about it is the amount of douche-bag customers the place attracts. And if there’s one thing I hate more than getting fisted by sleepless nights between raging hard-on infused work days, it’s douche-bag customers. 

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That’s all for now I guess. Nothing too substantial, nothing too equated. Then again, once these next 8 hours are slammed away in the Slave Bank, the next two days are mine to do with whatever I please. Maybe then I can get some writing done. Real writing, the good stuff. Lord knows it’s only been since about April since I started this book…but recently I feel like all I do is stare at the blank page while subconsciously playing with my balls. Literally, sometimes I don’t even realize it. Seconds will turn into hours, and instead of writing prose I’ll look down and see my two jubblies cradled in my right hand. Paradoxical.

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Blame the WIne: An Ode to Unconventional Intentional Bullshit

Being that this is my first post in quite some time, I will begin this little online duet with myself with a passage written a lifetime or so ago. In an attempt to add a bit of color to one’s life, in the same way some smut from south jersey might purchase a hot pink floor mat for their bathroom…here it is: an ode of sorts to one of my two most cherished beverages. Short and sweet, but full of promises and truths, like a glass of the beverage itself. 

Too often do we forget life’s little pleasantries. Wine of course not being anything little, but perhaps overlooked. And being that I am in fact accompanied by a glass of wine, staring at one screen being this one, and the other being the open laptop in which most if not all of my literary conception takes place…I might as well write a few words about my deep and unscrupulous, and perhaps biblical love affair I’ve been having with….wine… 

I’ve just caught myself in a bit of a snafu…having started a conversation with a woman with a line exactly as follows after her wondering why we haven’t talked in an indiscernible length of time: “I’d say let’s be butt buddies, but I’m a virgin and afraid to lose it to a woman.” 

Of course I’m not a virgin, at least to some things valued as centerfolds in outlandish cultures half-across the world, like needle-dicking your neighbor’s mother with a sheep-sheer, however, I find that, metaphorically perhaps, if the wine were any thicker, I’d have more shart-related bragging rights than a camel with down-syndrome. Wine truly is the juice of the Gods, and I implore everyone to acquire a hobby in which wine is a prerequisite.

And while the aforementioned is one of the few negative obscurities invoked by the juice of the Gods, it is not nearly enough to cancel out the infinitely positive POSITIVE aspects. …..

Not only does wine awaken the urge to purge a vaginal interchange with one’s own testosterone-cursed trajectory, but it also gives birth to a new meaning to the word: “inspiration”. All out war in the bedroom may be shortsighted and splintered if not for the promise of queef-blasted defiance, and in the respect of Judas…betray ALL expectations. Pour a glass. Forget the blank page. Summon the opposite sex. And make her one hell of a steak dinner w/ a pasta side dish. Then look them deep in their eyes, and don’t say a word….(unless they’re the insecure type and have no idea why the hearth is ablaze with romance-soaked flames of euphoria, in which case, get the fuck out of there before you find yourself stuck with a Stage-Potato Stalker)….don’t say a word until your lips come staggeringly desperate for proximital enclosure…and THEN….pour another glass. You need to make the night last…not buckle and crumble with one single fucking kiss. 

Wine can do many things whiskey cannot…for instance…THE ABOVE. At least for me. Whiskey is good for writing. Wine is good for thinking about writing and then turning to fucking the first name in your contacts list in your cell. It’s clockwork. Genius clockwork. 

They say life isn’t fair…I say it IS fair. It’s always fair. You get what you deserve…and if you fail to employ genuine romance…you GET WHAT YOU DESERVE. 

Wine and dine someone today. Tonight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night. Now. Just do it with honesty. Wine never lies, and neither should you.

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