You could describe last night as some sort of Jane Goodall Gorillas in the Myst kind of shit, but instead if some great scientific advancement in behavioral studies it just comes out looking like a lead in to some sort of Girls Gone Wild meat locker where the drinks are watered down and the chance of a decent guy getting some pussy goes right out the window cause I refuse to pack myself into a gym or give myself a creatine enema every four hours till my arms and chest looks like they were shrink wrapped in my shirt like something you’d find freshly butchered and wrapped at your local meat-monger or whatever gourmet supermarket middle aged women are hitting up to meet a new affair.
A good barometer for these types of situations is my pack of cigarettes. Which, by the fact that I smoked an entire pack minus four last night ensures me that there is nothing better to do in this strange situation, and that’s what is. Strange. Then again, that’s all it is for these people. It's about their strange. Who knows what these divorced from normal society middle children want out of life.
When Johnny come lately takes his fresh catch home maybe the best thing he can get from her is while she’s down there working on his bits and tackle he prays to god very seriously that she’ll work up the courage to stick her finger in the dyke. Maybe he did it accidentally in the shower one time, or maybe at summer camp in high school one of his best buddies late one night came into his bunk and decided to offer a suck fest and it stuck with him. Now he can’t get that image of a finger in his ass out of his delicate little mind grapes. He’s forced to wank it twice a day to get to some sort of catharsis.
Perhaps I’m being too hard on the old boy, we can’t forget about dame femme over there standing on stage performing some gyration they not call dancing. Every daddy’s little black dress white girl should be ashamed of herself when the sisters take their place on stage. Those bitches have figured it out. I don’t think my cock has ever stood on end like that for anything. If I die and go to heaven, which is impossible or highly unlikely, I want it to be a naked version of Soul Train.
Don’t fret though little white girl, I still hold a place in my heart for you. After all who doesn’t lie a dress five sizes too small and tits shoved up so high in them your B cup now looks like a Dr 90210 hall of famer. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to play the bongos with my cock. Hell, her fantasy is probably getting her eyes glued shut by my ten cc blast so we must be a match made in heaven. Now if only I could get that all summed up in those t-shirts you find on collegehumor.com.
The venue I so fondly chronicle, the River Deck if you’re curious and want to go seek your own strange, lead me to places that I never thought possible. Hell I even high fived a guy last night. I didn’t mean it so I’m not sure if that counts as a first. Then again, for twenty dollars cash two groups of two got up on stage and proceeded to munch down on opposite ends of a Slim-Jim till their faces met in some odd salty make out session. If that isn’t advertising some strange tween fantasy then fuck me.
Now if you really want to know if I’m jealous well then I say to you now, of course. But not for the reasons you’d normally think. I’d hate to make some girl race to suck down my salty Jim. I was never privy to the secrets of modern sexual bonding. I had to learn the hard way that I should have done a lot of blow and gone to business school. Then at least there's a chance I could pay for my date's morning after pill.
Hello America, I'm here to say.
