Gentle Reader, I had a very entertaining and eye-opening experience last weekend. I was in Charleston, SC visiting my father. Their air conditioners apparently put out twice the cold air of the ones in Georgia. Even though I try to masturbate at least twice daily, apparently when you get to 30, your balls have begun to get a little on the heavy side. I wear boxers, and that apparently doesn't give my junk the proper support that it so truly deserves. So as I am taking a nice long shower, my balls begin to drop it like it's hot. As I go to pull back the curtain and step out, that's when it happens. That arctic cold hit me, and I could literally hear my balls snap back to attention and jump up to hit me right in the taint. That is some serious recoil. I think it's time to go to boxer-briefs at the very least.
Today, let us journey into one of the few relationships I haven't touched on. She was a little bit off, which is the nicest way I can think of to say the two things she loved the most was to snort coke and suck cock. She found me on myspace, which pretty much dates this relationship, and claimed that we went to school together. Those who know me, can attest that my last name doesn't just pop up in just any old high school. So now we are starting off with a lie. If that wasn't the first red flag, the first one should have been the fact that she was a fucking mouth-breather. You all know these idiots, sitting there all slack-jawed, looking stupid, forgetting what their nose is for. Mouth wide open, sucking in wasted air, like they are in a fly-catching contest. If this doesn't alert you to mild retardation, nothing will. I once thought I had impregnated a mouth-breather. My first response was to tell her to meet me at the top of a flight of stairs. Luckily for all of us, it was a false alarm.
She was of Italian descent, which means she was genetically engineered to make a good tomato sauce and to know how to take a good punch. I never hit her, but after tasting her sauce, I regretted that decision. The "Italian Stallion" was a coke-head. It was all that mattered to her. I once let her borrow my Nintendo, so that her daughter could play with it. Next time I got in her car, I asked her why two of my games were laying in the back floorboard. She said those were the two the pawnshop didn't want. Question one. Why the hell are we talking about what the pawnshop DIDN'T want? Question two. Why the hell would they not want "Contra" and "Super Mario 3?" Question three, four, etc.... Why in the hell did you sell my Nintendo, fucking powder-hound? Did you even get enough money to support your habit for the drive home? And, again, why in the HELL did they not want "Super Mario Bros. 3?" This Nintendo was in pristine condition. Nevertheless, the "Italian Stallion" sold it for a twenty-sack. I mean, you didn't even have to blow in the games, thump the cartridge in the g-spot, wipe the entire room down with alcohol swabs, or play while wearing a Haz-Mat suit.
A good rule of thumb; never date a girl you have to piss for. I know relationships are based on mutual compromise, but if I have to save all of my urine in a microwave-safe-bowl in exchange for you busting out Reverse Cowgirl later that night, I think I would prefer to just rub one out. As humbling as it is to know that my piss alone can keep you out of prison, I think I need a little more out of life. The last I heard, she somehow still had custody of her daughter. So, she either cleaned herself up, found a new bladder to provide for her, or they started selling drug-free piss on Amazon. Until next time, Gentle Reader.