How to Become Internet Famous – Part 2: Create a Meme!

Picking up where I left off in Part 1, I have chosen to become ridiculously famous on the internet by creating a meme.  Through the use of Meme Generator, I will make an original, and hopefully hilarious image meme that you will spread around to all your friends an co-workers, so that I can become really, really rich.  At least that’s how I imagined it happening, although I don’t think that there is anyway to profit from freely shared images in the internet age (I don’t have a copyright or anything, plus I’ll be stealing an image and ideas from others without giving proper credit.  I’m a terrible hack.  Don’t you love the internet?).

I can cite properly, if I feel like it.

Image via Wikipedia (originally

The first step I took was to think of something funny.  If you are as awesomely hilarious as I am, you will have no problem.  I did have a problem though, because I find that when you are forced to be funny, all you can think of is dick and boob jokes.  I did think of a conversation I had with my friend Stark, so I decided I’d steal his idea and run with it.

Stark had just watched his favourite film, Die Hard, and was spouting off quotes expecting that I would quote along with him.  Unfortunately, I haven’t seen that movie in couple years (I have it on VHS tape, but my VCR is acting up lately, and it’s hard to find a VCR repairman anymore) so I couldn’t remember any memorable lines, except one:

I thought it might be funny if John McClane wasn’t able to quote himself, as perhaps he was getting too old to be an action star, let alone remember what he had said in his previous films (Ok, maybe I’m ragging on Bruce Willis and not McClane, but you get my point).  So he just spits out whatever common gibberish he could think of, followed by an insult, often vulgar.

Random words!

That's close to your famous quote...

I give you Misquoting McClane!

A wonderful day to kill terrorists!

McClane loves Disney movies.


And 80s cartoons.

I also mentioned previously that you can insert other established memes into your meme to jump-start its popularity.  A couple of examples:

He's kinda gross.

As a man, I love Foul Batchelor Frog.

Yes they do, Bubb Rubb.

Bubb Rubb knows all.

I made too many of these things, so I’ll just leave the rest of them here.

Whatever.Nonsense songs!

More dick jokes!Phil Collins doesn't take crap!

So spread it around so all your friends can share the lulz, and so that I can become infamous for a piss-poor attempt at being funny.  Also subscribe and comment, so we can argue about why I’m not funny.

More nonsense songs!

It's a very bad word, I know.

Posted in Being a Man, Semi-Serious | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

How to Become Internet Famous – Part 1

Such a happy dog!

You are awesome!

Everyone wants to be famous.  And what is the best way to become famous, if you are poor, ugly, and talentless?  The internet. The internet is a land of opportunity for anyone who wants to have their opinion heard, who thinks they are smarter than everyone, or who thinks they are funny, but no one else seems to think so.

When my internet celebrity didn’t take off after writing a blog, I had to look to other options to spur interest in my internet famousness.  There are literally thousands (actually millions?) of popular websites that you can use to promote yourself and your commie agenda.

There is YouTube, but barely anyone ever became famous after posting on that website, and very few spawned successful memes (except maybe the cam whores).  But you can also become infamous if you screw up and embarrass yourself, and someone happened to be filming it.  Remember, everyone has a camera phone these days, right there in their pocket, just waiting for you to be an idiot.

Did I mention I'm a Boxxy fan?

Boxxy is foar everywun.

There is also Twitter, but that just won’t work for me, as I think anyone who can express their opinions in less than 140 characters is less than intelligent.  There was even a study that showed that most of the Tweets on Twitter are pointless babble. I’m ok with random comments, asides (why else would I use parentheses so much in my writing?), and strange conversations, but usually they evolve into something more than just whatever popped into my head at that moment.  Writing long-winded posts is why I started a blog in the first place, and you will read ever word I write, god damn it!

Some are just too foolish to ignore.

A million followers on Twitter does not make you smart.

Facebook? Well, I use it, but only for personal matters.  I like having a separation between my internet life and my real life.  If my family knew I was writing about pubes and chesty girls, I think they would disown me.  It’s a good tool for staying in touch with family and friends that you may not see all that often, but I think people need to realize that we don’t want to hear about every mundane detail of your life (Here is a great blog post that dissects all that is wrong with Facebook lately).

We don't care!

Someone must care.

Now that I think about it, I don’t think any of those options will work for me.  I’m going to have to resort to the lowest form of internet humor to become famous:  the meme.  This is similar to some of the YouTube and Twitter items, but worse.  It involves taking a joke (it doesn’t even have to be all that funny), making it into an image, and adding a caption.  Repeat ad nauseam, with variations on the original picture and caption, and insert other established memes as appropriate.  Meme Generator makes it easy.

I'm a bit of a spelling Nazi.

Would it be as funny with correct grammar?

Come back next week, when I’ll attempt to make you ROFL with a newly created meme in part 2!

Posted in Being a Man, Semi-Serious | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Consoling a Friend After a Break-Up, As A Man

I've never been

Your college sweetheart left you for a predentistry major, but that doesn’t mean we all have to suffer.  Everyone goes through bad break-ups, and everyone recovers.  The trick to a speedy turn around is having friends who will support you, or at least degrade you to the point that you become mad instead of being sad.

Generally, the first step you should take when a friend informs you that they got dumped is alcohol.  Does that make sense?  I’m not sure, because I’m half drunk right now.  It may be hard for him to accept it, as there is a social stigma against alcoholics, as well as against drowning your sorrows.  But it will definitely help.  Intoxication lowers inhibition, so it will make it easier for your friend to truly open up.

The first drink is the hardest, especially when it's Irish whiskey.

It’s important for him to get everything out, so it’s best if you choose a drinking establishment that he is comfortable with.  A place where everybody knows his name, or at least he is familiar with the staff, and there is a chance that some other bar patrons will talk to him.  This gives him a sense of community, and hopefully gets him a few free drinks.  That’s another important note; don’t let your friend spend too much on drinks.  If he is a heavy drinker, he may be compelled to run up a huge credit card bill buying drinks for everyone that will talk to him.  You (or your other friends, I’ll get to that) need to buy at least half of his drinks, so that he doesn’t end up putting himself in a pickle when he needs to pay off his credit card (not to mention all the cash he’ll have to spend getting his life back in order after that woman destroyed it).

As soon as you have your buddy comfortable enough (for me it’s usually 7 beers), call up some of your other friends.  Explain that this guy got dumped, and he’s getting loaded so they should come out to support him.  If they are truly good friends, they will be there in a snap, because they know that this friend would do the same for them, and probably have in the past.  If your recently dumped friend tries to protest, saying that he’s gonna be fine, and they don’t need to come, explain to him that he is drunk, and he is also extremely emotional (you can add that he’s acting like a woman, if you really need to drive the point home) so his judgment is impaired, and he should just drink some more while you make his decisions for him.

Glum, but not hopeless.

In theory, at around the 10 beer mark, your friend should be feeling OK.  If he is a crier, there may still be a little sniffling, but once his other friends show up, he will want to be manly, so he’ll try to stop it.  If he doesn’t (and he’s kind of being a pussy), you will need to use reassuring statements.  Try:

These suggestions should give him a sense of self-confidence, and the other friends around him encouraging him to feel better will only help his emotional state.  If he’s still being mopey, he must have an extremely high liquor tolerance, so it’s time to bust out the hard liquor.  A couple of Jagermeister shots will do it.

It's cool to drink, but smoking is kinda gross.

Soon enough, he’ll be feeling like a hundred dollars.  And so will you, and your other friends.  Booze has a tendency to have that effect on people.  When you’ve settled up the tab, and your buddy is ready to head home (possibly with a new woman on his arm) call a cab, and pay the driver in advance for your friend.  Even though you’ve paid for half of his drinks already, this last act is crucial.  That extra 25 dollars that you spend on him will increase is feeling of worth, from a hundred dollars to a hundred and twenty-five.  Plus, if you ever get dumped (if you’re ever in a long-term relationship, but who wants to do that?), you’ll really appreciate it when he reciprocates the act.

In summary, break-up, booze, friends, booze, other better women, booze, booze.  And don’t forget to call in sick to work the next day, as it’s hard enough working with a 6-pack of beers in you (as per a usual work day), but working after drinking 16 beers, 7 Jager shots, 2 Caesars, and a Fuzzy-Navel (don’t blame me, the waitress bought a round of them for our table when she learned my buddy’s predicament) the night before is near impossible.

Posted in Being a Man | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Sharing a Poncho

Sharing a poncho is one of those intimate activities that you would be glad to do with any woman who tickles your fancy.  And no, I’m not referring to a condom when I say poncho, nor am I speaking of vaginal intercourse when I say sharing.  Although that is a pretty good euphemism, might have to use that in a future post.

My experience in sharing a poncho was at an outdoor concert this summer.  The weather forecast called for a partly cloudy day, with a 10 percent chance of showers. Naturally, I wore my best cut-off jean shorts and a Weezer t-shirt with the sleeves cut-off.  The Double-Cut-Off outfit is one of my many fashion trademarks that you will be seeing whenever I get discovered as a designer, hopefully someday soon.

The day started off well, as it was warm and comfortable, with just enough sun peeking though the clouds to warm the asphalt and keep a lingering stench of sweat and spilled beer around.  Anytime you have a gathering of several thousand people, there will be the unpleasant smells of humanity.  Yet, it is part of the experience, and you can learn to appreciate it if you get drunk enough.  And I did.

Even though the beers were terribly overpriced, I was pretty damn drunk early in the afternoon.  This allowed me to appreciate the music even more, as I like to dance and sing (more like shout incoherently) when I’ve had a few drinks.  It was at this time that I finally found my friends that I was supposed to meet earlier.  We said that we would meet by the beer booth, but there were 17 beer booths (trust me, I counted, since I bought a beer at each one as I was looking for my friends) so that made it hard for us to find each other.

Jack, a friend I met while at university, complemented me on my dancing, but warned that I should stop bumping into random people, as they were beginning to tire of my wicked punch-dance moves.  I stopped dancing for the moment, only because the band had just finished their set, and it would be a few minutes until the next band would have their equipment set up.  I handed out fist pumps to Jack, Mikey, Cobra, Hurricane, Stark, and Erin (Jack’s long-time girlfriend, and one of the coolest people you’ll ever meet.  Too bad they live a 4 hours drive from me), when I noticed a stunningly beautiful angel standing seductively next to her.

I paused to rub my eyes to assess what I was seeing, and after a brief moment of shock, I extended my hand for a handshake (since fist-bumps are cool, but not good for a first impression) and introduced myself.  She shook my hand daintily, and said that her name was Gabby.  She was short, had bobbed black hair, and deep brown eyes like fine mahogany.  I tried to speak intelligently, but couldn’t form any words other than “Gabby-bbee… hai.”  I’m not sure if I was tongue-tied because of her radiant beauty, or the 17 beers, but I’m pretty sure it was the way she looked, and how those skin-tight jeans gripped her thighs.

She said that we should grab a beer, and step out of the rain.  “Raimn, Gabby?”  I mumbled, still unsure of what I was seeing, probably since the rain had started pouring quite heavily (10 percent chance of showers my ass!  I could have killed that weatherman) and had drenched my clothing.  I failed to notice, as I’m used to being so sweaty that it appears as though I had just walked through a torrential downpour.

Gabby and I stumbled towards the beer tent,  and my group of friends followed, giggling uncontrollably, probably at all the good jokes I was spouting off trying to impress Gabby.  She seemed interested, so I bought her a beer, as well as 3 for myself (I was really thirsty from all the dancing, and I offered to buy her more than one, but she declined).  As soon as I finished paying the $32 for the beers (I know! They rape you on beer prices at those things!), we heard the first chords of that hit song by the band that we all wanted to see.

By this time, I had only finished my first of 3 beers, and I wanted to finish at least one more before I went back into the rain, for fear of being too cold (alcohol has a strange warming effect on my body, has anyone else ever noticed this?).  Yet, I still had to be at the front of the stage for that show.  Gabby sensed my need, and offered to let me share her poncho.  Just to clarify, this was a rain poncho, not one of those Mexican style ponchos that aren’t really waterproof.

It was an incredible feeling.  I cuddled up beside her, and she lifted it over my head, insuring that our beers didn’t spill.  We had to walk rather awkwardly to the stage, so as to not rip the poncho, as these rain ponchos are definitely not made for two people, and rip rather easily, as they only cost a couple bucks.  I could smell her breath (a combination of beer and cherry Fruit-Roll-Ups, apparently), and was amazed that she didn’t recoil when I pressed my cheek against hers to get a better view of the stage (and to get closer to her, although you can’t get much closer than sharing a poncho!).

We watched the performance, swaying with the crowd, and laughed at each other while singing every word.  Gabby loved this band as much as I did, and wasn’t afraid of my sweaty body and beer-breath.  What a woman!

When that set was over, the rain had subsided, so I reluctantly removed myself from her poncho (yet another possible sex euphemism!) and offered to buy her another drink.  She agreed, and I signaled to Jack, Erin, and the rest of the crew that we were going to the beer tent.  He gave me a thumbs up, while grinning like an idiot.  I thought he was just being goofy, but I didn’t know what he was really grinning about.

The truth was that I was inexcusably drunk, and drooling all over myself.  Gabby was ok with this, for some reason.  When we reached the beer vendor, they wouldn’t sell me anymore drinks, due to my drunken-stupor up to the counter, as well as my general drunk expression and saliva covered face.  I was not upset, I’ve been refused service before, usually for the No-Pants, No-Shoes, No-Service rule.  I simply walked away, well, not simply, actually.  Gabby held me up, and I somehow was able to shuffle back to Jack and the group.

To clarify, I don’t remember much of this, after watching the concert.  I’ve pieced it together from vague memories and from what Jack and Erin told me the next day.

After Gabby handed me back to my friends, she gave me a loving pat on the shoulder, and had to leave.  Erin assured me that Gabby still thought highly of me, even though I did embarrass myself horribly.

I haven’t seen Gabby since, but I will be visiting Jack and Erin in the coming weeks, and they have alerted Gabby of my visit, hoping that she would join us for a few drinks.  Emphasis on a few.

When I see Gabby again, I hope she will not focus on the drunkenness, but will remember when we shared a poncho, and it was the best way I’ve ever drooled on someone.

Posted in Being a Man, Finding Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Adoring Women’s Thighs, As a Man

Legs, thighs, the whole package, really.
The gams!  Zowie!  When I think gams, I usually am referring to the thighs, but in common usage it appears that gams applies to legs in general.  Although you don’t normally see the whole bare gam on a daily basis, you can still appreciate a great pair-a-gams when you spot them.

Gams are an amazing part of a woman’s body, and radiate beauty, no matter the body type.  Sure, the ones we see featured in movies and magazines are long and slender, but even the short, muscular ones turn me right on.  A tight, thick thigh (say that three times fast!) is a marvellous thing to look at, as well as slap for encouragement, and even squeeze tightly in the proper situation.

When assessing some gams, my favourite angle is the side.  This way, you can accurately estimate the girth of the gam, and even the tightness if you are lucky enough to catch a side view while the woman is walking past you.  Watch for a jiggle and bounce.  A little shake or jiggle is good, and some prefer more than others.  You’ll have to sneak a peek at a few gams before you know what you’re really looking for.

I know, she's not walking, but this is the best side view I could get.

After watching several nice gams walk past you, you’re sure to say,

“Alright, I know what shape and size of gams I like, but they’re all covered in jeans!  The only uncovered gams I’ve seen lately were posted on this great blog I’ve been reading!  How will I be able to know a great gam if, and God-willing, when I see a bare one?”

You’ll know.  You can tell when it’s the pants that are giving the legs shape, as they are extremely tight.  Sure, we all like tight pants, they really accentuate a woman’s assets, but you should be able to spot a woman whose pants are too tight for her body.  You want a woman who has those nice, natural gams, possibly enhanced by exercise.  The thigh muscles are often the strongest in the body, so you want them tight, and either thick, or trim, depending on your personal preference.

What about colour, you say?  Well, I’m not one to judge a person on the colour of their skin.  But I will voice my opinion on leg colour.  I like a light tan on the legs of a caucasian woman.  Shows that they get out, and that they’re not afraid to bare their skin for a longer period of time.  Note that I said a light tan.  I can’t stand those women who fake-and-bake 3 times a week until their entire body resembles a carrot.  Although, I can see why some men adore milky, white thighs.  They’re pretty hot.

Maybe her skin is a little too dark, but that could be photoshop.

Again, remember that not everyone has Hollywood Thighs.  Hell, most people don’t even have Bollywood Thighs.  I do hope that by using these tips, you will be able to find a mellow thighed chick in no time.

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Naomi Campbell Does Not Wear Panties During the Summertime

Isn't she adorable?

Naomi Campbell, British fashion model and physically abusive snap-show, does not wear panties during the summertime.  This is a well documented fact.  She probably doesn’t wear underwear on warmer days during the winter, but this has never been scientifically proven.  So why isn’t the internet flooded with camera-phone pictures of her axe-wound?

First, she is a well-respected, successful fashion model.  In a time where Black models were only used for exploitation or to make a fashion line seem more “diverse”, she had tremendous success in both runway and magazine modeling.  It has been said that Campbell paved the way for most African models of the 80’s, and created the tidal-wave of Black female supermodels in the 90’s.  She changed the way people in the fashion industry marketed their products, and was a role model for African-British women for a decade.

People don’t want to mess with powerful, successful people.  They want to work with them, even if they are fashion divas, and most likely have a prissy demeanor.  Naomi Campbell is serious business.  I would be extremely nervous if I ever met her, not because of her towering stature and incredible abs, but because she exudes success.  She has no time for people who are worthless and ugly (see: me).  The general public respects and admires her, so they refrain from sneaking up-skirt photos of her, even though they know that they could get a beautiful shot of her clam.

Second, she is as crazy as a shit-house rat.  Being a supermodel in the 90’s meant 2 things:  young boys drooling over your bikini photos in Sports Illustrated’s Swimsuit Issue, and cocaine.  All that nose candy will give you a beautiful figure, since your body will no longer crave food, but it will also drive you completely mad.  Campbell held it together fairly well, but started to lose it when her career was waning.  Unfortunately, you only really get a decade of being a top supermodel, then other younger girls will step up to take your place, your money, and your cocaine.

Campbell was still landing modeling contracts in the 2000’s, but was definitely slowing down, just as her cocaine addiction was ramping up.  She needed to find a way to increase her income, while simultaneously expressing her anger towards the world that was moving past her and finding younger, more attractive bikini models.  She chose to start beating the shit out of her personal assistants.  How she thought this would increase her income, we will never know.

She even thinks it's funny!

The beatings began with simple slaps and punches (not to mention verbal abuse, but that’s a really ambiguous type of abuse, as I verbally abuse my penis nearly every night when it doesn’t do what I want it to), but escalated to her bashing her housekeeper with her cell-phone, causing injuries that required several stitches.

This is where her craziness crossed the line.  Before, people thought, “sure, I can take a few slaps from Naomi, as long as I get to be in her presence.”  But after that incident, people realized that it would be best to avoid Campbell at all costs, and not even attempt to grab a cell-phone pic of her snatch, for fear of her taking the phone and bludgeoning the fuck out of your head with it.

The lesson here is fairly obvious:  If you want a picture of Naomi Campbell’s pussy, just Google it.  You can find it without bloodshed and assault charges.

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She Should Pontificate More

Those eyes penetrate directly to my mojo.

She should pontificate more.  She’s terrific.  I kind of like it when a woman talks down to me, making me feel inferior.  It’s not that I like to be dominated, but I enjoy a woman who has strong opinions and can stand up for what she believes in.  When a woman, especially an authority figure, expresses herself intelligently, it totally turns me on.

I’ve always had a thing for attractive superiors.  When I lived in residence at university, the residence assistant for my floor was extremely attractive.  She also did not have any patience for hi-jinx and other amusing activities, so I felt her wrath a few times.  Even though what I was doing was technically not against the rules (trust me, I read the rules and there was nothing in there about laying a slip-n-slide in the hallway), she gave me a stern talking to, and even felt it necessary to stand within an inch of me and yell directly into my face.  I could taste her lip balm.  Delicious.

Back on the topic of pontificating, even if a woman’s stance on a topic is ridiculous, it’s interesting to hear her defend her view, and herself.  I’m not insulting women here, most women are beautiful and intelligent.  There are a few who argue like children, and use broken logic to come to an uninformed conclusion.  I do find that cute, but it does not mentally arouse me like a smart, sharp argument.

I especially enjoy when a woman is so set in her opinion that she will become frustrated, and even angry, when expressing it.  That passion flares up inside of her, and you can see it in her dark, piercing eyes, and her strong physical stance.

Yeah, she's pissed.

This anger is often fueled by the thought that you are attacking the person, and not the idea or opinion.  Some women will begin defending themselves, and totally forget about the point that they were trying to make in the first place.  Some women will go as far as to begin insulting others on a personal level, in an attempt to regain some of their own personal dignity (which they never really lost in the first place).

Again, I find this attractive.  It’s great when a woman can be so passionate about a topic that she begins losing control over her emotions, and rationality flies out the window.  I find that this type of women will carry this “rationality loss” into the bedroom, and just go absolutely crazy.  I have done some very wild things with women who have lost their temper over a trivial discussion.  This is very different from angry-sex, as the woman is usually not angry with you, but angry with herself for not being able to convince others that she has a well-informed opinion.

Basically, what I’ve been trying to say is, don’t be afraid of well-spoken women.  The more strongly opinionated they are, the more likely they are to experiment in bed after a strongly worded debate.

Posted in Being a Man, Finding Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Can busty female models sell t-shirts to men?

Yes, they're large

In short, yes.  When I see attractive, chesty women featured in ads for t-shirt websites, I occasionally click on them.  Yes, I enjoy boobies, and yes, I fantasize about seeing these girls naked.  But I still respect them as models, and support them by clicking through to whatever website they are promoting (SnorgTees! check it out!).

But I do have to concede that having a particularly large busted model does not always work.  Some t-shirts have text or pictures that are easily distorted by those lovely breasts, occasionally to the point that they cannot be interpreted properly.  The photographer of these models generally makes sure it does not happen in the ads, but it does happen when a busty women wears a shirt with a graphic printed on it.

Chinchillin' is not really funny, unless you are a chinchilla farmer.

The model I have chosen to show you is the bustiest one I have seen. From my research, her name is Ashley, and she has a blog here on WordPress called Phoenix Beauty (At least I think it’s her, you never know who’s posting fake blogs now-a-days).  Although she only has a single post, we learn that she does not model for a living, and hopes to be an English teacher someday.  I find her more attractive knowing that she can blog and uses proper sentence structure!  Ashley, if you are reading this, please realize it is a pathetic attempt at humor, and I only seriously mean the nice things I say about you.  The upcoming overly sexual and graphic descriptions of your breasts are meant for amusement only.

Most of the models for t-shirt websites have a slimmer, more athletic build, but with breasts still apparent, and distorting the image on the shirt just enough for the men to notice. I find those women attractive as well, but not quite as intriguing as this one.  She has an expressive face, fantastically cropped hair, and of course, those massive chest-puppies.

I'll do whatever she says.

This picture is my favourite, as it shows a full-body shot, asks us to hold something, and is also mildly sexually suggestive with that look on her face.  And her open mouth.  We can see that the shirt needs to be pulled down to see the image on it, and because of the full-body view, that she is indeed an attractive woman, and not some freak with huge fun-bags.  She has proportionate legs, wide thighs, and enjoys posing in a wide-legged stance for the amusement of internet perverts.

Take note of her beautiful, large, green eyes, tasteful use of eye makeup, and perfectly sculpted eyebrows.  This care and attention to her face shows that she’s not just a model interested in displaying her body, but one who knows that facial expressions are an important selling feature. She realizes that her eyes and eyebrows can define the mood of a picture, generally more than an open mouth.

In conclusion, I love t-shirt models.  They are beautiful, share insightful messages on their clothing, and are actually advertising something I would want to buy (although I’ve never bought a shirt on the internet.  I worry about sizing, since I’m usually somewhere between a small and medium, and the mediums I buy don’t always shrink in the wash.  Plus, when you factor in shipping costs, the shirts aren’t really that cheap, unless you want to buy in bulk, but then you have the sizing problem when you receive 12 shirts that don’t fit.  Dammit!).

Finally, just because this post was about breasts, here’s a banner ad you would see at the top or bottom of a page.

I don't work for SnorgTees, honestly!  But if they want me to write for them, I totally would.

Doesn’t it just scream, “Tits for Sale! Click Here!”

EDIT:  I changed my description of Ashley’s eye colour to Green, as per a comment received from Ashley herself.  It is such an honor to have a comment from the model I was writing about!

Posted in Being a Man, Semi-Serious | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

Sweaty, orgasmic, magical Ping-Pong

Sweaty, orgasmic, magical Ping-Pong.  Impossible, right?  Not if you understand the nature of the game, and have the right person to play with.  Ping-Pong (or table tennis if you trust Wikipedia) is a fun, physical, and sexy game if you wish it to be.

I met Julia at a comedy club.  A friend asked me to go with him to watch another one of his friends who was the warm-up comedian to the headliner.  You know how Jerry Seinfeld is funny because he makes humorous observations about everyday life?  You know how other people try to do that, and they’re not funny because only Seinfeld has that perfect delivery, and plus those type of jokes were only funny a decade ago when Seinfeld was spouting them out every week on TV?  Well, this guy didn’t know that, so he wasn’t funny.  The headliner was actually hilarious, told a bunch of jokes about werewolf taxi-drivers getting vasectomies.  Or something.  Guess I wasn’t paying attention.

Julia was sitting at the table to my left.  I could see a few drops of sweat on her brow, since this cheap club thought they could save money by turning off the air-conditioning and also turning off the lights, in an attempt to blind people to their sweaty-ness.  Being a man means that I sweat quite a bit myself, and I knew that she would appreciate an ice-cold beer to replenish those fluids that have been squirting out of her forehead.

Quickly, as that first comedian (if you could even call him that) was stepping off the stage, I swooped in beside Julia and asked if she would like a drink.  She mumbled something like, “Uhhhmmmm…” which I took in the affirmative, and rushed towards the bar to get us a couple of the cheapest beers they were serving.  The bartender was surprisingly prompt,  I gave him a 50 cent tip for his trouble, and dashed back to sit beside Julia just as the second comic was beginning.  This worked in my favor, as Julia could not verbally protest me sitting awkwardly close to her, as she didn’t want to disturb the comic’s ridiculously vulgar taxi-surgery jokes.

When the comedian finished, Julia and I began chatting about the merits of professional tennis, and the entertaining grunts some of the athletes make while playing (this comedian was funny!). Naturally, the conversation switched to ping-pong.  I learned that she had played since she was a young girl, as her parents had played doubles together in college.  I told her about my 2 tables, 1 outdoor and 1 indoor, made to Olympic regulations.  We agreed that beer-pong is a fun game, but not necessary as you can easily just get drunk and play.

I asked her if she would like to come and see my ping-pong tables, and play a few rounds over a few more drinks at my place.  She excitedly said yes, and we immediately left that dark sweaty shit-hole of a comedy club.  Stepping into the setting sun, I finally got a good look at Julia.  Was I ever happy with my choice.  She was incredibly beautiful, and had much more to offer than just the talking silhouette I had pounced on inside.  She looked like a combination of those 2 hot women on that Criminal Minds TV show; only hotter.

We began walking to my place, since we were both too drunk to drive (funny how watching a bad comic will make you drink more, maybe comedy clubs hire unfunny comedians as a ploy to sell more drinks?), and Julia commented on how sweaty I was.  I apologized, quoting my hyperhidrosis (I don’t know if I actually have it, but I do sweat a lot) but she said that it was “kinda hot.”  I don’t know if she was talking about the weather, or that my sweating was a turn-on, but I couldn’t wait to get home.

When we arrived, we immediately went into my basement so she could see my Olympic ping-pong table.  She was acted impressed, but quickly switched the subject to how sweaty her clothes were, and wondered if she could take off her shirt to let it dry.  I had no problem with that proposition, so I turned my back to let her take it off with a bit of privacy as I grabbed a couple of beers out of the fridge.  When I turned back around, she was completely naked, ping-pong-paddle in hand, ready to play.

We drank, played every variation of ping-pong we knew, and groped and fondled each others sweaty bodies through the night until the sun came up.  Then we went outside and played a few naked games on my outdoor ping-pong table in the dim amber light before the sun completely rose and the neighbours would be rousing to go to church. 

I asked Julia if she wanted to go to church, but she said she would rather try to have 2 more quick orgasms, and show me a trick with a ping-pong ball.  I obliged.

I never saw Julia again, and thought for a while that the entire night was nothing but a dream.  But then I got a letter from the community association citing me with a $100 fine for “inappropriate public nudity and copulation”.  Totally worth it.

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I miss you, Mildred!

I do really miss you.  It’s difficult for me to say, none of the other women I have met lately don’t measure up to you.  Yes, they are either too young, or too pregnant, but still, you are a much more interesting person.

Mildred, I must confess, I don’t actually know your real name.  We never formally met, so I just guessed what you name was.  Mildred is one of those beautiful, classic names, and I think it suits you perfectly.  You should consider changing your name to Mildred, unless you have one of those really beautiful names, like Candy or Destiny.  If you changed your name to Mildred, it would really help me in remembering, since I have been referring to you as Mildred to my friends and family for the last 4 years.

If you don’t remember me, we first met in Accounting 201 at university.  This was a number of years ago, and you have probably graduated and started an exciting career.  I dropped out, as university just wasn’t my thing.  I liked the parties and the people, but I couldn’t take the 10 AM classes, they were just too early, and no amount of coffee could keep me awake after those drunken evenings at the strippers.  But I am doing just fine, and am able to support myself comfortably.  I’m guessing you are looking for a man who has his poop-in-a-group, and I am definitely that guy.

I sat one row in front of you, and about 8 seats to the left.  Wait, it was 7 seats.  I had to count them so I could tell my friends who I was looking at all the time.  Not that I was staring, it would be pretty awkward if I was.  But I would take every and any opportunity to look back at you; you just have that radiant quality that I couldn’t easily avoid.  I don’t think we ever made eye contact in class, but maybe you remember some of the jokes I made, they were pretty funny.  I Googled “Accounting Jokes” and memorized the best ones so I could pull them out at appropriate times, while still not disrupting the class completely.  I don’t think you ever really laughed at them, but some people did, and that gave me a chance to look back at you while I was scanning the room for the laughers.  All that work, and you never even looked at me!  Oh well, those jokes weren’t really my type of humor either.

After that semester ended and that class was finished (I think I got a D+, that’s a pass!), I didn’t see you again until that night at the bar.  I was drinking with my buddies, like I do every Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday,  Saturday nights, and Sunday afternoons, and you were there with a few girls enjoying the greasiest wings in town.  I told my friends that you were the “Mildred” that I had been telling them about over the past year, and they were less than impressed.  They said your face was “Rat-Like”, which I countered with by saying you had “Sharp-Features”, and also called you a “Stick-Figure”, which I honestly see as a “Youthfully-Slim-Body”.

Your best feature, which my friends didn’t have the opportunity to notice, is your smile.  I didn’t want them looking at you for too long, or else they would fall hopelessly in love with you like I did, so I didn’t mention your incredible smile.  Your relaxed face is cute, but leaves something to be desired.  Then, even when you just crack a tiny smirk, your cheeks perk up, and those sharp-features allow your eyes and mouth to express that perfect bliss inside of you.  I only once had the honor of seeing you break out that full smile, but it was heavenly.  I felt a little weak in the knees, and couldn’t help smiling myself.  When you were happy, the entire world brightened up and was happy with you.

After 7 more beers that night, I finally had the courage to speak to you.  I came to your table, and offered to buy you and the other 3 girls at your table a drink.  You politely declined, saying that you had just started another drink, and that you were waiting for someone, so I really shouldn’t sit in that seat at your table for long.  I appreciated your manners and straightforwardness, so I left, but only after wishing you and your friends a pleasant evening.  I’ll never forget what you said next; “Thanks, see you later.”

But I never saw you again, Mildred.  It still hurts me today that our paths haven’t crossed.  I long to see that smile, and hope that I can be the person to put that smile on your beautiful face.  I hope that someday, somehow, we will meet, and I will say to you:  “Mildred (or whatever your real name is, but you should seriously consider changing it to Mildred), I will be happy everyday for the rest of my life if I can make you smile, just once.”

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