The Case FOR Premarital Sex (NSFW)

Sluts, whores and hussies are wonderful for so many reasons whether you like them or not.  Sex is not a bad thing, never has been.

In fact, sex is why we are here today and why we will be here tomorrow.

Why then are so many people concerned with telling others not to have sex?  The notion of not having premarital sex is completely insane to me.

Here’s a scenario for you:

Two young high school sweethearts have been going steady since their sophomore year.  They both made the promise to wait until marriage to have sex, signed the prom letter, wore the promise rings and all that good shit.  They fulfill the promise and finally get married.

On the honeymoon, he carries her over the threshold of the suite and goes straight for the bed.  After several seconds of passionate kissing, the moment is close. Continue reading

Douche Bag Gym

(I used to work out in a local gym and that is where the inspiration came from for this post.)

Hey 20 year-old bench press guy… thanks so much for grunting so loud that everyone in the place thought you were passing several golf ball sized kidney stones.

We were all wondering if you would get that last rep.  And by the way, when you are laying on the bench, make sure you put your dick to the side instead of it standing straight up like a mini-sprinkler.  Unless of course that’s your best pick up move.

Hey “I’m a Cougar Hear Me Roar” Mom… doing lunges across the middle of the gym.

I know, your husband is most likely fucking his much younger, much hotter than you secretary and it’s time for you tone up that ass.

And what’s the deal with the fully done “it must be ladies night” makeup and perfume you are wearing.  Continue reading

Observations from a Treadmill- the trainers

As I continue with my exploration into the world of Gyms and working out, I will begin calling these posts, “Observations from a Treadmill.”  I recently made the decision to be healthier and exercise more, mainly because I don’t want to end up as a diabetic and have my feet amputated later in life.

Anyway, my first Treadmill post called “Douche Bag Gym” was my observations of a few of the different types of people at the gym.  This post will concentrate more on the trainers and employees at the gym.

The Greeter: I arrived at the guy at 5:15 A.M. and I still had bits of sleep hanging in the corners of my eyes and even though I brushed my teeth, I’m sure my breath still smelled like old beer and smoky bar.

Essentially, I was sleepwalking into the gym that morning and everything was blurry.  As I handed my key chain scanner deal to the employee, she almost knocked me down with her ridiculous A.M. energy.

“GOOD MORNING, HAVE A GREAT WORKOUT,” she said in a voice that sounded like it was attached directly to my eardrum.

Holy shit, I couldn’t believe how alert she was at such an early hour.  How was this even possible?  Anyway, I made my way to one of the empty treadmills and started my cardio session.

The Trainer:  About three strides into my daunting 45-minute rapid walk, I could see him standing next to a guy who was flabbier than me.  Continue reading

Did Tony Fuck Angela?

(A while ago I had a gmail blogger account and posted this.  One of my favorite poets,Misti Rainwater-Lites posted a nice comment about it.  Sure it could have been a Misti imposter, but I like to tell myself it was really her.)

I keep asking myself the question………… Did Tony ever fuck Angela? I want to know, I want to know badly. If he did, I think it would have gone  something like this:

Tony approached her right after he finished vacuuming the drapes. She had probably just returned home from a hard day of work at her advertising agency. She was standing by the door teasing her Grayish-streaked hair, almost inviting him to taste her middle-aged grapes.

“Hey Angela, you are looking pretty hot standing there by the door. Why don’t you come a little closer so I can fuck you up the ass,” Tony would quip.

“Oh Tony, you are so boorish, so Italian, so ruggedly…………….. what time is dinner,” Angela would blush and retreat to the kitchen.

Then Mona would enter the room, arm entwined with a an old drunk who resembled Bukowski. Tony and Angela could both smell the sex on her breath as she paraded around the room with the misguided confidence only shared by Blanche from the Golden Girls. Continue reading

I Would Like To……

I would like to dip Paula Deen in butter, roll her in flour and then drop her into a huge deep-fat fryer.

Then, once cooked, slice her into little bite-sized pieces and feed all the hungry kids in the world.  I’m sure she would taste like a yummy, plump chicken.

I would like to make people understand that praying does absolutely nothing and waving your hands to the sky only makes birds and aliens very nervous.

Thanks a lot religious freaks, I’ve been waiting for years to be captured by aliens and taken away from this planet.

I would like to lock all the Kardashians in a rubber-walled room with three dictionaries and see who figures out how to open it first. Continue reading

1-976 HIPSTER

Subcultures fascinate me and nothing fascinates me more than Hipsters.  They are fucking everywhere, literally and figuratively and I enjoy poking fun at them.  (probably a poor word choice there)

There is a fetish out there for everyone so I’m sure there is a Hipster Phone Sex Line and here’s how I think it would go down:

Caller: (after dialing 1-976-HIPSTER and giving her his credit card number) Hi there, I’m a little nervous, I’ve never done this before.

     Hipster: Don’t be nervous, I’m here to ease your stress and a ease a few other things….if you know what I mean.

Caller:  Oh well, that sounds nice.  Can you call me Clementine?

Hipster: Sure thing, but how about Clemmy?

Caller:  (giggling) Oh yeah, that’s nice.  I’m already getting wet, tell me about your vintage records.

Hipster: Glad you asked, I have quite the vinyl collection.  Original Sgt. Peppers, Hendrix Isle of Wight,  Johnny Cash, Salt N Peppa………

Caller: (gently moaning) I was so close until Salt N Peppa.  Let me hear about your ironic beard and wardrobe  (hands in panties) Continue reading

Plastic Parade (a poem)

duck-face-mom-yearA-typical Rolex submariner sits on the dad’s wrist like a beacon of arrival,
his too-tight Ed Hardy tee sticks to his cross fit chest like an extra layer of skin.
those hours in the gym, the broccoli, the grilled chicken, the spinach salads……
Eyes scanning the crowd looking for that 25 year-old who hasn’t yet sunk the botox into her forehead

Wifey to his left, flipping her platinum dyed hair again and again and again
She, looking for someone to make fun of, looking for someone to help her feel better about her collagen duck-faced lips,

her third tit job, her fourth anal bleaching, her fifth affair with a new trainer,Tattoo reads “MILF” along the panty line that only a select 50 or so willing erections get to see.

She, peering at the younger women while licking her lips with the misguided confidence of an American Idol contestant Continue reading