ninja turtle tuesdays was ruined by ten punds of sugar spilling into my lap. I have sugar in my pockets. In my pants leg. Then I threw water, and subsequently became a walking birthday cake. I forgot to mention the flour. The powdered sugar. The light brown sugar, the dark brown sugar. I would have been a shitty birthday cake, but Brooke commented that she will now look forward to her next birthday as long as I am her birthday cake. I think thats Womanese for "I wanna fuck." Good. That seems to be the plan, but I am fully prepared for the dark cloud of "I'm not that easy" to descend suddenly and without warning. If it doesn't though, I will unload a weeks worth into her awaiting pussy. Either way, I'm going to drink to infamy. I used to drink like a scotsman. Then like a pirate. I even hinted to a few friends that there was one level higher than pirate before you reach Alcoholic. That level is infamy. The void between hard drinker and alcoholic, where legends are born and die, where the stories of lifetimes are quickly forgotten and the hangover looms like a car wreck in your head. This is where I will be, and I plan to accomplish the following things while totally shitfaced and beyond any control whatsoever.
1. I will make as many references as possible to Ghostbusters, the first movie. Not the second.
2. I will stare incessantly at Brooke's tits and ass without any composure or candence.
3. I will generally intimidate and belittle every other male present, because I want all the girls. So fuck off.
4. I will drink until Brooke wants to fuck. Then we will fuck. If she does not want to fuck, then I will drink till I pass out. (Waiting on pussy is not a manly thing to be doing, kids. Remember that. But drinking till you pass out is, however.)
5. Later, I will wake up in a strange place with no recollection as to how I got there. (Side note: I will try to top my personal best of waking up in a bathtub missing a shoe and sock, wearing a chicken hat, with a pillow that all of the current residents have never seen before. Heh, that still brings a smile to my face.)
6. And even later, I will write about how it all went down, because I am spiritually inspired by the stories of Tucker Max.
I need to consider getting anothercar, because I do not like the way my current car is shaped. Imagine a long beast made primarily of poor design qualities and almost thirty years of abuse (a 77 maverick). Why would I waste money on restoring a piece of shit? So I'll sell it for some mediocre price of, say, a sandwich, and purchase another car a friend has (and is trying to sell because he's mechanically retarded) which I think I can fix for relatively cheap. Then I can save up for the 69 Chevelle. Yeah, that'll happen. I should probably just fix my car. Dammit, I'm so intransitive. Remember to buy a blueprinting manual for ford engines, Noise. And possibly an automatic transmission rebuild manual. Fuck! Dammit, I'm going to bed now. if I can resist the urge to milk my prostate with needlenose pliers and motor oil, cause thats what its like restoring a car that should not be restored. Goodnite.
1. I will make as many references as possible to Ghostbusters, the first movie. Not the second.
2. I will stare incessantly at Brooke's tits and ass without any composure or candence.
3. I will generally intimidate and belittle every other male present, because I want all the girls. So fuck off.
4. I will drink until Brooke wants to fuck. Then we will fuck. If she does not want to fuck, then I will drink till I pass out. (Waiting on pussy is not a manly thing to be doing, kids. Remember that. But drinking till you pass out is, however.)
5. Later, I will wake up in a strange place with no recollection as to how I got there. (Side note: I will try to top my personal best of waking up in a bathtub missing a shoe and sock, wearing a chicken hat, with a pillow that all of the current residents have never seen before. Heh, that still brings a smile to my face.)
6. And even later, I will write about how it all went down, because I am spiritually inspired by the stories of Tucker Max.
I need to consider getting anothercar, because I do not like the way my current car is shaped. Imagine a long beast made primarily of poor design qualities and almost thirty years of abuse (a 77 maverick). Why would I waste money on restoring a piece of shit? So I'll sell it for some mediocre price of, say, a sandwich, and purchase another car a friend has (and is trying to sell because he's mechanically retarded) which I think I can fix for relatively cheap. Then I can save up for the 69 Chevelle. Yeah, that'll happen. I should probably just fix my car. Dammit, I'm so intransitive. Remember to buy a blueprinting manual for ford engines, Noise. And possibly an automatic transmission rebuild manual. Fuck! Dammit, I'm going to bed now. if I can resist the urge to milk my prostate with needlenose pliers and motor oil, cause thats what its like restoring a car that should not be restored. Goodnite.