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

The A-Hole Bachelor (my version)

bachelorIt’s difficult for me to admit, but I watched the Bachelor last night.  I really just wanted to confirm that the show is a collagen-filled parade of insecure fame hunters.

While confirming the above, I had an incredibly creative vision.

A new show called, The Asshole-Bachelor should be created.  Everything would be exactly the same as the current show except the Asshole-Bachelor would have to be 100% honest at all times.

The Asshole-Bachelor would say things like this:

  • Well fuck no you aren’t getting a rose.  Seriously, did you think that crying about being dumped a while ago was going to get you a flower?  And additionally, your face looks like you’ve been chewing on wrenches.  Fuck off and stop crying.
  • (To the African-American contestant) I’m only giving you this rose because the producers said we had to have a black woman make it until at least week 3.  You are very nice though.  Cheers
  • Whoever figures out how to lick my balls the best, gets to go on the next date.
  • I love my son, now fuck me hard.
  • True love awaits you………….. in the hot tub
  • I haven’t brushed my teeth in three days, so when you start sucking on my tongue and catch a whiff of hot-garbage, that’s just contestant number 2’s pussy you smell
  • I know, I know, isn’t anal bleaching just the best
  • So you didn’t get a rose, who cares.  You can always video yourself fucking a rapper and fame is sure to follow.

I think HBO could have fun with this one. My version would be so much more fun and entertaining.

If my version of the Bachelor shows up one day on some vague cable network, I will be getting a lawyer.

Contestant #3 (an ode to the Bachelor)

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(I’m re-posting this because my favorite train wreck is starting again on Monday)

OMG, who will he pick this time????

After sucking on 10 different sets of collagen-filled lips, love is floating around the hot tub like un-caged semen unfazed by chlorine.

“I can really see myself with you.  I’ve never felt a connection like this,” says contestant number 8 as she slips her bikini top back, adjusts her thong and exits the hot tub.

The Bachelor looks toward the sky and thanks the good lord for his fortune, but before he can finish the prayer, contestant number 3 sneaks up behind him, wrapping her lips around his ear.

His dick still hard from number 8, number 3 was now straddling him as the bubbles started to foam and lap against his chiseled pecks

“You know, I want to show you a trick,” she whispered into his ear.

She turned around, dropped her head into the water and into his lap. She began sucking his member.  His body began to quiver.  Just when he thought he could take no more, her ass jumped from the water and began to “twerk” relentlessly in his face.  Her precious lady bits were only inches from his face.

He started to slide his tongue into her meat pouch, but a sudden thought of fear rambled around his head.

“Oh no, my sweet little daughter will watch this one day.  What will she think about her daddy licking number 3’s lady bits in the hot tub.”

Then he quickly remembered how heavily edited the “reality” show is.  He inserted his tongue deep inside number 3’s love canal, gave her a rose and asked for a cigarette.

Manufactured love is a beautiful concept and a concept the Bachelor will never forget.

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

John Travolta and the Creepy Van

(I wrote this years ago before any of this “gay” rumor shit was in the news.  And by the way, who gives a fuck if Travolta likes to give rim jobs to hot, male masseurs?)

Am I the only person around who thinks John Travolta is just a bit too creepy and might be that guy you see driving a weird, old van in your neighborhood right after school lets out?

I’m not even talking about the whole Scientology aspect either.  His smile is just a little bit “off” for me.

When I see him on television doing an interview he kind of looks like that guy who drives the old, decrepit van with the tinted bubble window on the back offering kids in your neighborhood candy.

You know the van I’m talking about, the one with the airbrushed wizard mural on the side.  It was the type of van your mother told you to stay away from.

The van that was always circling the elementary school playground, the van with the mini air conditioner unit in the back window speeding away from playgrounds like a convict was driving.

Then, on the rare occasion that the van actually parked somewhere, the guy getting out had bad, green prison tattoos and that crazy Travolta-like smile.

That smile that someone only has when they have one hand down their pants and are alone on their couch watching a neighbor sunbathing.   That smile. Continue reading

The Best Dream Ever

It starts with me walking down a poorly lit hallway with several doors on each side, some cracked open and some closed.  I want to look in each door, but something is making me nervous to look.  But I look anyway.

The first door is numbered 666 and I open it.  There is a huge bed in the middle of the room and I see Rush Limbaugh dressed like a catholic school girl and he has black mascara dripping down his bulbous cheeks like he’s been crying.  He looks at me with his God-Fearing eyes and points to the corner.

In the corner there are two Filipino adult midgets tied together with ball-gags in their mouths, smiling and sitting on top of a very worn out Twister board.

Then out of the closet, Justin Beiber runs out dressed in a lederhosen t-back carrying a crystal magic wand.  He flips his hair, points the wand at Rush and says, “Lady-Boy Alive.”  Immediately Rush grows HHH titties and starts giggling like he’s on laughing gas.

He gets down on all fours on the edge of the bed and Justin mounts him and starts riding him like a donkey.  Rush squeals and Justin just keeps flipping his hair.  Then Usher appears with a video camera and starts taping the whole thing and tells me he’s going to put it on You Tube.

I’m starting to feel a little weird about everything so I try to help the Filipino midgets get untied.

They start blowing me kisses, so I run out of the room and slam the door shut.  At the end of the hallway I see my 5th grade teacher standing next to a urinal and she says, “I told you that you wouldn’t amount to anything.”  I wake up and realized I pissed myself, again.