Crazy (noun) 1 Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results 2 Internet dating

Crazy (noun) 1 Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results 2 Internet dating

Friday, June 3, 2011

Big Tits Donna: A Tale of New Year's Past



Me at the beginning of any New Years Celebration
New Year’s Eve. Julius Caesar established January 1st as New Year's Day in 46 BC. The Romans dedicated this day to Janus, the god of gates, doors, and beginnings. The month of January was named after Janus, who had two faces - one looking forward and the other looking backward.


Pick a lane, wouldja Janus? What an asshole.

These Roman’s would worship a hard cock with a stripe on it if someone drew a picture of one a wall. But what REALLY amazes me is that all these fucking years later; nobody has had the balls to say “you know what? The Romans may have built some nice shit, but they were still a bunch of backwards kid fuckers who got together to watch each other puke”

I say fuck ‘em, let’s name the days and months after the stupid shit that WE worship like ‘Playstationember 7th’ or ‘Cocktober 13th’ I don’t know about you? But from now on when someone asks me when my birthday is, I’m saying Titsember 24th. If our society is so proud of its shitheadedness, then hell…let’s bask in it!

But it’s not so much our celebration of stupid shit that makes us gather around dickheads like Ryan Seacrest to watch a giant nut sack drop in observance of the New Year; it’s our lack of focus. Does anybody out there actually write out a list of accomplishments and failures from the past year, in hopes of learning from your successes and shortcomings? No you don’t. Well, what do we all do then? We make feeble pledges to quit smoking, eat better, and stop shoving things up our asses…pledges that we rarely if ever follow through on. Many of you have something shoved up your ass right now despite your resolution from the past year. The bottom line is that like most holidays, the point of the New Year holiday has been lost over the years in its observance. In other words; it’s just another excuse to get wasted.

I, for one, will NOT be getting drunk this year. Not from any stuck up sense of being better than the rest of America, but because nobody really likes me. So I’m going to try to do what the Roman’s intended and look back on my past New Years follies, my failures from THIS year, and see if I can learn anything from all of it that will help me put a game plan into place for the year to come.

2011 began with a promising start. I had a girlfriend, I’d been at my apartment for a few years, and I just bought a TV so big that you could hide a fucking Winnebago behind it. Then the shit storm hit. My dog broke the TV, my thermostat stopped working which made my apartment colder than a penguin’s dick, and my girlfriend dumped me by leaving a note on my Air Hockey table. After that, I picked myself up and challenged myself into finding a woman that I could connect with, only to be riddled with a non-stop gaggle of internet dates consisting of fatties, liars, and narcissists.

Be that as it may, I don’t know any more whether to be more depressed on my birthday, or on New Years. Which one TRULY signifies the closing of another year caked in mediocrity? Every Titsember 24th just makes me realize how close I am to having to let a doctor shove a camera up my ass when I turn 40. And every Drunk-cember 31st just serves to remind me that I’ve added another year to my time in retail hell, with another one looming ahead of me and NO end in sight.

Sometimes though I can squash that feeling of New Years gloom by getting incredibly drunk with my friends and maybe making out with a fat chick on someone’s couch before puking down the front of her dress. This is not one of those years. Much like the New Year’s Eves of my youth, I sit here in a darkened living room, by myself, playing music so depressing that it would make Joel Osteen Jump off a fucking bridge, affording me time to lament. What I’ve come to realize is that 2011 sucked and I’m not entirely optimistic that 2012 will be any better.

Some of my earliest memories of New Year’s Eve are of sitting up late into the night watching Dick Clarks New Years Rockin’ Eve on the TV, in an empty cottage, on a deserted military school campus. I never watched the show all the way until midnight though, because I’ve always had a general disdain, even then, for watching other people have fun while my thumb is placed squarely up my ass.

In hindsight, I know that having to spend every holiday alone, holed up on that campus because my mother wouldn’t take me home, was really a blessing in disguise…although it didn’t seem like it at the time. But what was the alternative? Sitting on the couch and waiting nervously to see what kind of drunk my mother would have on when she came stumbling through the condo door after work? Would it be one of the ‘beating’ drunks? Or the kind where she would just stand in the darkened doorway of my bedroom, naked, staring at me for hours? I could see the silhouette of her varicose veins, her gunt, and her big floppy fat woman titties outlined from the kitchen light casting its glow behind her. I would stare back at her from the darkness with one eye, barley open, not letting on that I could feel her evil drunken glare, and ready to fight if she came in. Sometimes the outline of her hideous body would play tricks on my mind as I stared back, like that painting of the cowboy where you can’t tell if he’s coming or going. I felt like the old man in ‘The Telltale Heart’, and I would sometimes be afraid that my mother could hear my heart beat and see my one eye open in a sliver of light. It wasn’t a sexual thing, never that, and I never felt threatened in that way; it was just a drunk thing, but the horror I felt on those nights was all too real.

Any psychologist worth his salt will tell you that the origin of my general lack of interest in dating a gravitationally challenged woman, lies at the feet of those memories…so stop being all shitty to me because I don’t want to date a fat chick.

After my unceremonious expulsion from military school, I found myself at home on New Year’s Eve for a couple of years. My mother worked at the jail during the night shift on those evenings, so it wasn’t too different from being stuck on campus. I sat up and watched TV late into the night. I’d made some friends during that time, and I even had a few jobs, but the constraints of a ‘legal age limit’ and not having a driver’s license yet kept me firmly glued to the boob tube.

During my second year of high school, way the fuck back in 1989, I met a girl in the mall. High school was a bit nerve racking because I’d went to an all boys school for 5 years, and now I was thrust upon a world of women. I had no experience with the fairer sex, and what was worse was that I had no guidance in how to deal with them now that I was among them. There was no father figure then to teach me, I had no rules or theories in place, and as horny as I was…it seemed as though my dick was forever doomed to stay shackled under my zipper.

Rather than go home after school to deal with whatever kind of drunken tomfoolery my mother was up to, most days I would go straight to the mall. Other than the midget with a clipboard who always tried to get me to take surveys, I loved that place. I could window shop, see a movie, have a taco, and because there were so many people meandering about, I rarely got caught eye-groping the endless parade of sweater puppies that made my dick so hard that it could cut diamonds.

One of my favorite places to visit was the photo shop. I had a fascination with cameras and the manager there was a nice guy who would teach me about f-stops, apertures, and developing. One day, as I went to go into the store, I noticed a young girl working behind the counter. My heart nearly stopped. I’d never seen a girl that looked like this, other than maybe in Madonna videos. She had short blond hair, tight black clothes, and tig ole biddies. I’d never thought of myself as a tit man but the thought of rubbing my face all up in those things gave me the vapors. I could feel the sweat forming on my forehead and I felt as though my legs would give out from underneath me. It wasn’t love that was making my knees go all akimbo, but the pure sexual desire of a 16 year old boy. I walked to the food court, sat down, and tried to collect myself.

Fuck. What was I going to do? I didn’t want to stop learning about cameras, but at the same time I couldn’t face this girl. She was beautiful, we obviously had a common interest, but my inexperience with women made her seem like an impossibility. I sat in the food court for about an hour, contemplating my assholedness, when the girl from the camera store sat down at a table next to me with her lunch. Shit…it was now or fucking never. I knew if I thought about what I was going to do…I’d never go through with it, so I stood up, walked over to her table, and sat down across from her. Keep in mind…we were 16, and back then a move like that wasn’t considered creepy. I introduced myself to her and she told me that her name was Donna. I was surprised to find myself confident and charming, and I was even more surprised when Donna gave me her phone number before heading back to work.

I called her later that week and we went out on a date. I still hadn’t developed an opening sex move yet, so I never fucked her. We kept in touch over the next few months, and I came to find out that a lot of guys my age DID fuck Donna. Even though she went to a different school than me, I heard that guys in MY school knew her too…only they knew her as Big Tits Donna. I felt bad that Big Tits Donna had earned this reputation, but I still wanted to fuck her. I think that my genetic makeup makes me predisposed to being attracted to that punk look. On New Year’s Eve that year, I would finally have my chance to see those titties in all of their glory…but I had to decide if releasing them from their sweater prison was worth the price I’d have to pay.

Sometimes life will surprise you by putting opportunities in your path that you never even considered were possible, and then it will show you the folly of your ways by saying ‘Did you really think it would be that fucking easy you moron?’

Directly across the hall from my mother’s condo, there lived an older Greek woman and her daughter Damarius, who was my age. I later found out that ‘Damarius’ means ‘heifer’ in Greek, which was appropriate because this girl looked like a baby cow. I don’t know if it was the tube like clothing she wore that only accentuated her heaviness giving her a sausage look, the giant Harey Carey glasses, or the short curly hair cut that she sculpted into a mushroom cloud on top of her head, but I can’t remember ever being less attracted to a woman in my life.

Keep in mind that at that age I was spanking my dick more often than Fox cancels good TV shows. I experimented with fucking inanimate objects like couch cushions, the rug, and I even tried fucking one of those big mouth ketchup bottles. I would have fucked a barbed wire fence if someone put one in front of me, but Damarius was like a sexual negative zone. Whenever she was around, my dick would deflate and a ketchup bottle that once looked like an inviting red vagina to me, just looked like a ketchup bottle again.

However, Damarius made her intentions clear to me from the moment she moved in by hitting on me daily, bringing over Greek pastries for me, and even talking my mother into making me take her on a date. Her nagging was incessant, and nothing could have made her goal harder to obtain than enlisting the help of my mother. But, like most fat, hairy, Greek chicks…Damarius was cunning, and while chatting with me one day, we learned that we had a mutual acquaintance…Donna. Small fucking world. I had NO inkling that these two knew each other, but Damarius told me with great enthusiasm that she and Donna were the best of friends. I couldn’t very well tell her of my crush on Donna, but the fact that I was actually paying attention to the words that were coming out of her mouth kind of gave it away. She had something that I wanted, and she was going to use it against me to get what SHE wanted.

After my mother left for work at 8PM on December 31st 1989, I ordered a pizza and sat down on the couch for an evening of televised New Year’s Eve revelry. The few friends that I had acquired since I was thrown out of military school were busy with family celebrations, and I’ve never felt like one to intrude on holiday gatherings. I was always invited someplace, but I’ve always felt as if it’s not the responsibility of others to entertain me because of my lack of any viable family. At around 10PM, after I was well fed and while I was being deeply entertained by a Video Countdown on the MTV, there came a knock on the door.

It was Damarius. She told me that her mother was spending the night at a family member’s home, and she asked if I would like to come over and watch the Time’s Square countdown with her and a friend. I politely told her that I wasn’t feeling well, and that I’d probably be going to sleep in bit. A harmless lie that I hoped would get her to throw in the towel for the evening. Then she told me that the friend who was bringing in the new year with her…was Donna.

I’d been to Damrius’ condo before, and it smelled of old ladies and Baklava. As much as my hormones told me to go, just to see Donna, I knew that Damarius would only cock block me and the brunt of any sexual advances would come from her, not her friend. I thanked her, but told her that I would just be staying in for the night. She told me that they had alcohol, and if I changed my mind, I was welcome to join them.

At around 11:40 as I was sitting on the couch whistling the Globe Trotter’s theme and masturbating to Paula Abdul in her ‘Cold Hearted Snake’ video with the sound turned all the way down; there came another knock on the door. I hate being interrupted mid-jerk. I opened the door and said with a heavy sigh “what is it Damarius?” Damarius gazed at me with a sly look in her eyes, put her hand on my chest, and pushed me inside the condo, closing the door behind her. I could smell the booze on her breath, and she moved her hand down my torso to just above my dingus. I was a little stunned and still horny as hell because I hadn’t yet spewed a goopy load.

“What the hell are you…?” Damarius interrupted me with her best ‘come hither’ voice, and said “You should come over…Donna wants to fuck you…I want to fuck you.”

Ignoring the latter part of her statement, I said “Bullshit, Donna does NOT want to fuck me.”

“Oh, she does, but you have to fuck us both”

The gravity of the situation started to weigh on me…holy shit, is she for real? No way. I was horny as hell, and even though I found Damarius disgusting, she was breathing heavily on my neck and touching me just above my dork. I was hard, I wasn’t thinking clearly, but I was still skeptical. “Why didn’t Donna come over here with you?” I asked her incredulously. Damarius looked up at me with a crafty smile, and opened my door. There, across the hall from my mother’s condo, stood Donna in Damarius’ doorway…topless. I was speechless. Damarius knew that she had me, and started to pull me towards her door. I pulled my door shut behind me and walked the five steps across the hall. Donna took my other hand and the two of them led me into the condo.

I’d fooled around with women before, but it was always a quick grope here, or a sloppy teenage kiss there. I’d seen naked women in magazines, but I hadn’t yet been familiarized with porn. This was my first set of real live in your face titties, and I couldn’t stop staring at them.

Donna offered me a beer which I gladly drank. My mouth was dry from the excitement of what was about to happen. I slammed 2 more down as she flirted with me in the kitchen. Even though by entering her condo, I’d made an unspoken pact to fuck Damarius…she may as well have been in another galaxy because all of my attention was focused on that perfect rack. They were big and beautiful with medium sized areolas that seemed to be in perfect proportion to the breasts they were on. Her nipples were hard and pointed at a 45 degree angle towards the ceiling, like little pencil erasers. These tits had to have been bigger than a double D, and they seemed almost out of place on her tiny frame. Her skin was milky white in stark contrast to her black dyed hair. Her blue eyes saw my nervous glare, and she comforted me by taking my hand and putting it on her left tit. Then she leaned in close and said “it’s OK, everyone has a first time” and she kissed me. Oofa.

I felt her rubbing my hard-on through my jeans as we stood there in Damarius’ kitchen making out. My hand shook like a frightened puppy as it fumbled about her boobs. My eyes were closed when Donna leaned back and told me that I was a great kisser. I heard her pop open another beer as my head swam with the warm glow of booze and impending penetration. When she started kissing me again, it didn’t feel quite the same. As I reached up to grab her breast again, I quickly opened my eyes when I felt hair. In front of me, with her tongue in my mouth, stood Damarius. Oh. My. God.

I thought at first that Damarius was wearing a sweater, but when I pushed her back, pretending that I needed another drink, I saw that she had taken her shirt off. Unlike Donna, Damarius had flat pancake titties that hung down and rested on her vast belly. Then I saw something that almost made me vomit…something that still haunts me to this day…she had hair on her nipples. Not like a few strands of peach fuzz either. It looked like she had Buckwheat in her tittie and he was being milked out of her head first. Her breasts looked like the hairy teets of an orangutan who has just given birth. I didn’t think that Damarius could be LESS attractive, but it just goes to show you that life can always surprise the shit out of you.

Donna suggested that we all go into the bedroom, and I didn’t mind that at all. My dick had deflated again after seeing those hairy spider nipples, and Donnas’ voice had sprung it back into action. Damarius announced that she was going to the bathroom to freshen up, and that the two of us should start without her. That was the best thing I’d ever heard. With any luck I’d be done in about 30 seconds.

Donna and I kissed down the hallway, and when we got into the bedroom, she threw me down on the bed, and turned off the light. The kitchen light was still shining through the doorway, which was more than enough to keep my eyes focused on those gazoongas. Damarius’ condo was the exact same lay out as mine, and her bedroom was in the same location at the end of the hall. The slight buzz I had gotten from the 3 beers I slammed made it seem as though I was in my own bedroom.

Donna climbed on top of me, and leaned down to kiss me as she unbuckled my belt. I thought my dick was going to explode. I could feel the heat from her pussy on my crotch, I could feel her breasts as they hung down and rested on my chest, and I could feel her tongue rolling around in my mouth. The countdown had started on the television in the living room, and the condo seemed to be alive with the sound of thousands of people in Times Square counting backwards from 10.

TEN!

Donna climbed off of me, and pulled down my zipper as she snuggled next to me.


NINE!

She kissed me as her hand continued to tease my prick beneath my pants.

EIGHT!

She pushed her body up and rubbed her breast on my face. I ravenously lapped at it like a thirsty dog.

SEVEN!

She rolled off of the bed and looked me in the eyes as she pulled her pants down revealing a tiny black thong.

SIX!

She walked to the front of the bed and pulled my pants off, still hungrily looking me in the eye.

FIVE!

She tiger crawled between my legs, up to the raging hard on that was tenting my underwear, nearly bursting through it like Superman through a brick wall.

FOUR!

She put her face against my cock, and breathed heavily on it through my drawers

THREE!

She reached behind her and pulled her panties off, from my position I couldn’t see her vagina, but this was the closest I’d ever been to one. I was only separated from it by 2 feet and a thin layer of Haines.

TWO!

My excitement reached its pinnacle as she grabbed my underwear at the waist band and started to pull them down. I felt like I was at the peak of a roller coaster about to drop.

ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!

As the crowd began to cheer from the living room, I looked up and saw the silhouette of my mother standing naked in the doorway of my bedroom. Only this wasn’t MY bedroom, and it couldn’t have been my mother! Confused and frightened, I screamed and shot up out of the bed, accidentally kneeing Donna in the face as I did. My dick went from full on hard, to turtling up and hiding itself somewhere in my lower intestine. Terrified, I backed up against the wall, knocking over a lamp as I did. As my mother entered my room (can’t be my mother, not my room), she turned on the light, and I realized that it wasn’t my mother at all…but Damarius. Her fat body and lengthy low hanging titties resembled my mother so much, that I found myself cowering like a frightened child against a wall with my pants around my ankles, while Donna mother fucked me on the bed with a bloody lip.

I quickly pulled up my pants, apologized to Donna, and stepped the fuck out. What a fucking mind job. I would have been more pissed, but truth be told, I came twice before Donna even got my pants off.

I never saw Donna again after that night, but three years later I would meet the man who would become my very best of friends throughout my twenties…Action Jim. Once again, I found out what a small fucking world it is, because as I was telling Action Jim of my adventure with Big Tits Donna (sans the part about my mother of course), Jim confessed that HE had in fact fucked Donna while they went to the same high school together. This has long been a topic of debate between Action Jim and me, as I continue to believe that he’s full of shit, and he continues to profess his accuracy in describing his fuckery of Big Tits Donna.

After that New Year’s Eve, the next several would find me at various parties, drinking myself into a stupor. I would always start out the night in my best suit and tie, confident that I would keep my cool and meet a young lady so that I could bring in the New Year mid thrust. However, by the end of the night I was usually topless with booze spilled all over me and dancing like an idiot to the cheers of drunken party goers.

I spent the last three New Year’s celebrations with T.C., and I enjoyed having a girlfriend to bring 2011 in with this past January. But truth be told I knew that shit wasn’t gonna last forever. I like dating girls that are above my pay grade, but unfortunately they never last. Through my experience with the younger generation of women, I came up with a rule quite a few years back, and I broke that rule to be with my most recent ex. Dating rule number 3: Never date a girl between the ages of 20 and 22. 18-19 is fine and 23 and up is ideal, but those first three years in a woman’s twenties? Fugetaboutit. I’ve dubbed this dating phenomenon: The Relationship Countdown Clock. The clock starts ticking about 3 months before the woman you’re dating turns 21.

Tick – She starts making plans to have an extravagant ‘girls night out’ on her birthday.

Tock – She goes out and buys a new outfit for her birthday bash with the ladies, and it’s sexy as hell.

Tick – as the big day draws nearer, her friends who have already turned 21, start telling her about the cute guys they’ve met at the bar.

Tock – Because YOU’RE older, the allure of bars has burnt out long ago. So you tell her that you’ll take her to a nice restaurant or a bar that YOU used to go to when you liked going to bars. Unfortunately, that place has become a sad hang out where ex club kids now go to die.

DING DING DING – The relationship countdown clock strikes midnight on her birthday, and she goes out and discovers ‘bar dick’. Hot guys wearing tight vertically striped ‘Express for Men’ button down shirts, who buy her drinks and subdue her with pick up lines SO old that they could vote.

The magic is gone, and your dick turns back into a pumpkin. It’s an age old story. Losing a younger woman is like getting your brand new 2012 Mustang convertible stolen. If it was an ’89 Chevy shitbox, you wouldn’t really give a fuck, but because that pussy was right off the showroom floor? You cry yourself to sleep every night wondering who’s driving it, where it’s being driven, and what position it’s being driven in.

When her birthday came in February, I took her to one of those expensive Brazilian steak places where the Puerto Ricans run around cutting meat off of sticks for you. I spent copious amounts of money on the dinner, the alcohol, and I even bought her a necklace. All stuff that ANY self respecting thirty something year old should do when dating a hot blond 21 year old with big tits. The next day when I came home from work I found a note. A NOTE! Like a ‘dear John’ letter or some shit. In it she wrote: “I’m breaking up with you because I don’t like that you joke around that I’m going to break up with you now that I’m 21”

Really?

NOBODY…is above ‘the relationship countdown clock’. Deal with it.


I dried up, vagina-wise, for a few months after she left, mostly because I was depressed. She strung me along during that time, telling me that she ‘just needs some time’. I knew what that meant, it meant “I don’t have the balls to just break up with you all at once, so I’m going to make it as long and brutal for YOU as I can, in order to make MYSELF feel better in the process.” I finally nutted up and told her to get to steppin, and with my new found sense of self adulation; I went on a whisker hunt.

I got in touch with an old girlfriend, and we started fucking again. That’s how us men like to dip our toes in the ‘dating waters’ in order to get our courage up to jump in after a breakup: We fuck an ex.

During the time we were having ex-sex; I put out my plea on the Craigslist, announcing my return to the dating world. The next several months found me going on dates with women so warped that they made Mariah Carrey seem stable. Every one of them, and I mean EVERY one lied about SOME thing. The most recent one was the Canadian Moose who lied about her weight.

The thing that sucks about a woman who lies about her weight is the fact that I’m NOT an asshole. Because of this, I have to pretend I’m not disappointed and try to keep her eating so she won’t try to have sex with me. Most people buy food for a prospective girlfriend as a Greek god type offer of sacrifice so they CAN get laid. I’ve bought a bear trapper amount of food this year for women just to NOT get laid.

A few months before the Canadian Moose, I met the Mom Chick. This girl seemed perfect on paper. She was romantic, she had a wit, and she seemed very intelligent. Over the course of a few weeks, our conversations turned sexual in nature, and I finally invited her over for dinner. I’m a pretty good cook, and she all but told me that I was going to be clit diving into the snatch shallows that night.

When the big night came, I had spent all day preparing our meal. We would be having Crawfish Etouffee over rice, homemade corn bread, Poor man’s Jambalaya, and I made a special desert of Alcoholic Bread Pudding with Lemon Sauce and Chantilly Cream. Because I always like to be prepared, I put a condom in my nightstand, amyl nitrate under my pillow, furry handcuffs on the bedpost, and a bottle of Johnsons baby oil with the cap half unscrewed for easy access when it came time to give the patented Hempen back massage, on top of my dresser. I made sure that the romance playlist was queued up on my iPod; I dimmed all the lights, set the table, and lit some candles. The wind was just right for fucking.

A knock came to my door, and I checked myself in the mirror one last time. I was neatly quaffed, and I went to answer that knock with confidence. And there she stood, as beautiful as she was in the pictures she sent me…but with two fucking kids. She NEVER told me that she was bringing 2 kids, hell, she never told me that she HAD two kids! This was a date, and she led me to believe that ass would ensue.

I had to turn on all the lights, put SpongeBob on the TV, pack up the meal I spent all day cooking, and BUY them all a fucking pizza. Then these fucking monsters started throwing my shit around like a couple of monkeys on uppers, followed by having a sword fight with my Guitar Hero guitars. At one point, she and I went on my balcony to have a cigarette, yes I had to LEAVE my own apartment to smoke, and when we came back in, we heard a ruckus coming from my bedroom. It turned out that her kids had drank half of the Chantilly Cream, which is loaded with alcohol, and when we followed the noise down the hallway, we found her kids in the midst of being kid drunk. One of them was handcuffed to my bed while the other was spraying’ him down with baby oil and wearing a purple condom on his head. Yes, I have purple condoms.

As I’ve written about some of my other opposite sex encounters this past year, I won’t bore you with them again. Needless to say and I’m sure you’re thinking it: I have got to stop meeting women on the internet.

So what have I learned from this trip down memory lane that can help me change the course of my luck in the new year? Well, absolutely nothing really.

My life seems to have been an endless barrage of things keeping me from getting laid more often than I’d like. I know that I should stop putting so much faith in my search for a decent woman on the internet, but frankly it’s just not that easy for me to meet women in bars any longer. Most of my friends are married or have moved away, so meeting girls through them is out the window. And as far as work goes? The ONLY hot chick where I work is also a whack-a-doo. She’s that kind of person who begins every statement with “my HUSBAND and I” and never uses the term “We”. I thought of seducing her at one time JUST to get her to cheat on her husband because she annoys the living shit out of me, but she has that glazed over, Chuckey Cheese Robot Mouse, religious zealot, crazy eyes look and I just know that at night, those eyes are looking at catalogues to find the right colored cardigan sweater for her husband. Gives me the douche-chills.

So, I’m not really left with many options outside of internet dating, and as shitty as those experiences have been so far, its brought me back to my creative side with all the writing I do about them. That’s a checkmark in the ‘positive’ column for 2011, right? A few friends have had beautiful children, a few friends have gotten married or engaged, and I got a great dog to replace my ex. She’s more loyal and cheaper to feed too. And the best part of 2011, is that it will end with a Three Stooges marathon on the AMC. So maybe this past year hasn’t been all bad.

There’ve been regrets, heartbreaks, indecision, shitty movies, and just plain bad luck in 2009. But if we can put our heads up and look the coming year in the eye, I’m certain we can bend it to our will. And although I’ve made sex on top of many women since 1989, my New Year’s resolution is to find another Big Tits Donna and motor boat those things until I pass out.

My advice to you is to stand tall and put your fist up the ass of life. Elbows deep, people! So Bend over 2012, I’ve got some amyl nitrate left over, and 365 days of payback coming to me…take it like a man!

Me at the END of any New Years Celebration

Happy New Year Everyone!



























3 comments:

  1. I read about 50% of this. LMAO. I wish I had more time, I'd read all of this shit everyday. You definitely have serious writing skills. Hope this pans out for you, you deserve it. Hope all is well man, take care, Happy New Year, Bri.

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  2. Thanks Brian, Happy New Year to you, your lady and that great family of yours!

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