12 Things

1. I have a mirror in my shower, people thing it’s for shaving (and it is), but it’s REALLY for making shampoo horn and monster faces at myself every morning.

2. I have a dent puller suction cup thing I bought to pull a dent on my car, worked great, so now I pull dents out of stranger’s cars when they’re not looking, I find this quite satisfying.

3. I wear Sponge Bob boxer shorts under my business suit, and NO, I’m not gay.

4. I’m in my forties, but I still listen to music that angry fourteen-year-old boys like, Slipknot, Lamb of God, Static-X, Pantera……REAL LOUD.

5. I send magazine subscriptions (pre-paid) to people to bug them, I figure out the magazine they’d hate the most and that’s the one they get. Ebony to my racist friend, BBW to my ex-wife, Playboy to my friend with the super jealous wife, Hot Rod to my environmetal friends.

6. On the weekends, I dress like a bum (torn shorts, baseball hat, Timex watch) and drive my old muscle car. I hit on the most stuck-up women I see, if they reject me, I get a weird pleasure in knowing that I’m really a successful Architect who could buy and sell them. Silly girls.

7. I flirt with little old ladies, not in an overt way; I get a kick out of how randy of a sense of humor most of them have. I think some of them would go for it if I wanted.

8. I have a collection of Hot Wheels and Japanese toys that is worth thousands of dollars.

9. I still eat Cocoa Puffs and watch cartoons in a tent in my living room sometimes.

10. The oldest woman I have ever slept with is 35, I find most women my age boring and controlling, I am single (Duh). I don’t look my age, I’m pretty hot.

11. I put bumper stickers on people’s cars without their knowledge, “I love my dog” ones, Kerry stickers on conservatives, those little gay pride flags or pink triangles on REAL uptight people’s cars, and again, NO, I’m not gay but I work with a bunch of gay people.

12. I tell strange dogs to “get the kitty” and watch them freak out.

You may think I’m immature, but I’m really happy.

I HATE shopping at Costco

You might have seen me if you shop at Costco-Livermore. I’m the no-nonsense customer striding purposefully down the aisles, pulling products from shelves and out of coolers. If I seem in a hurry, it’s because I am. I’m shopping for my business, so I’m working. And every minute I spend here is one where I’m not making any money. Consequently, I’m one of those rare Costco customers who is here to shop, pay, and leave in as little time as possible. The way I see it, it’s customers like me who pay the bills, not those no-life borderline retards who spend hours munching on free samples, reading entire books in the literary section, and leaning on empty shopping carts like walkers, while socializing with the other leeches. Given the chance, I would take each of you aside, customer and employee alike, and explain to you why you make shopping at Costco my most hated weekly activity. See if you can recognize yourself on this list.

The Aisle-Blocker — What’s truly impressive is not that you weigh over 500 lbs and still manage to hoist yourself vertical long enough to shop at Costco. It’s not that you have a sister/daughter/aunt/friend who closely challenges you for girth. It’s how the two of you manage to position yourselves and your two shopping carts so precisely as to completely block an aisle ten feet wide, without the use of laser-guided surveying equipment. As you pant and snort your way down the aisle, stopping every five feet to catch your breath, you resemble nothing more than two dirigibles constructed from pea-green stretch pants. “Excuse me, wideload”, I’m dying to say, “Would you kindly consider moving your fat ass six inches to one side so that folks who are actually moving can pass?” But I know from experience that it’s just faster to backtrack and loop all the way around in front of you than to wait while you complete this highly strenuous manoeuvre. Others who fall into this category are The Elderly Relative (what kind of assclown brings a disoriented centenarian, confined to a wheelchair and unable to breath without an oxygen bottle, to a warehouse for an outing?), and the Mom With Eight Rugrats (hanging off the cart or orbiting unpredictably around her).

The Free Sample Buzzard — Can we do something about the practice of leaving your cart sideways in the middle of the aisle while you rush off to stuff your face? Believe me, it only takes a second to push it to the side of the aisle, and no longer than that to move it back into the flow of traffic. I know the satisfaction of not acting like an inconsiderate asshat means nothing to you, so let me explain the benefit in a way that does. If you block shoppers like me, who just want to pass, we might be tempted to move in on “your” free samples, since we can’t do anything else until you move. Now, you don’t want *that*, do you? There’s another odd ritual involving the free sample kiosks that I don’t quite understand. It occurs while waiting for the next batch of samples to be prepared, and is like a reverse version of musical chairs. The Buzzards mill around the general area, nudging their carts along listlessly. The *bing* of the microwave is like the crack of a starters pistol, as the Buzzards abandon their carts in place and hurl themselves at the tasty snacks. It’s too bad that you had to knock over The Elderly Relative in your mad rush, but who knows when Costco might be giving away free samples again? Maybe the concussion will knock some sense back into that bony old blue-hair.

The Cashier — How am I? In a hurry. The fact that I am already filling out my check or packing my shit into the cart should make that clear to an experienced professional like yourself. Kindly focus your efforts on making sure that I don’t have to be here one minute longer than is absolutely necessary. And please don’t take it personally when I grunt a non-answer to your grindingly unfunny joke about the large number of corn dogs, French bread pizzas, and Philly cheese steak sandwiches I’m buying. Aside from the fact that I hear some variant of it every week, the last time I gave my stock answer — “It’s for my business” — the cashier (male, of course) held up the box of Light Days he just scanned and asked in a louder voice than necessary if this was for my business, too. In addition, not answering you intelligibly slightly lowers the probability that you will make your pitch about Saving Me 2% On My Purchases! I know it’s your job to ask, and you have — nearly every week for the past two years. It’s *not* your job, you smirky, window-licking frat boy, to smugly demand “Don’t you like saving money?” when I decline your offer. Just shut your gub until it’s time to announce my total, and we’ll both be rid each other that much faster.

The “Bagger” — I know you guys have your “systems” for filling my cart. I have a system, too, which is this: I want to leave with everything I’ve paid for. Not unreasonable, yes? So if you *are* going to set things aside to pack them more efficiently later, make sure everything ends up in the cart. And speaking of packing efficiency, how is it that I can pack a cart only up to the top edge, and you — who have 500 times more experience packing carts than I do — can hardly fit this into one cart?

The Final Indignity — You, the receipt-examiner at the exit of the store, are the human equivalent of a car alarm. Ostensibly a crime-deterrent, you actually serve no practical purpose other than being an intense annoyance. Legally, I’m not required to put up with this charade; I can breeze right past you, and you know it. However, I don’t want to bust your chops for this stupid ass-covering exercise that some some seat-sniffing ex-MP security dweeb from Costco Corporate dreamed up. I know that you are just doing your job and take more of the infantile level of shit than anyone else at Costco. So let’s make an arrangement: I’ll submit to stopping and handing you my receipt; you stripe it with your marker and skip the part where you pretend to check it against the contents of my cart.

And now…finally…all the crap is loaded into my van, and I am headed for THE EXIT. Could the sight of the Pearly Gates themselves produce such joy and anticipation? Now if only these two fat aisle-blocking cows, slowly waddling down the middle of the traffic lane, would get the fuck out of the way.

Wedding Cake

So, first of all, congratulations to my good friends who got married last weekend. Congratulations, ‘mazel tov,’ good luck. It was great and I hope you guys are happy forever. That said, I couldn’t help but look around at your wedding and think, ‘Wow. I don’t want any of this.’ But don’t think that your wedding specifically turned me off to weddings. No, we are all now in our late twenties and wedding invitations appear in the mail with almost the same frequency that delivery guys slip take-out menus under my door. And now, having attended and been in a few weddings, I can’t help but think ‘I don’t want any of it.’ I don’t want a country club or a church. I don’t want a hotel ballroom or a big white tent. I don’t want a priest or a rabbi. I don’t want 200 people there who I don’t even know. I don’t want numbered tables. I don’t want to put all of my random ‘single’ friends at one table in the corner of the room, making them feel even more alienated than they already are at a stereotypically ‘coupled’ event. I don’t want bridesmaid drama. I don’t want all of my bridesmaids wearing the same ugly color and the same ugly dress and hating their shoes so much that they curse me behind my back. I don’t think I even want bridesmaids. I don’t want anyone to sign a guestbook where they have to come up with some spontaneous wisdom about love and happiness. I don’t want cute little party favors with the bride’s and groom’s names scripted in gold, proclaiming ‘our special day.’ I don’t want people to figure out their seating arrangements by picking up their party favors, which are also wrapped in pink chiffon. I don’t want a big white dress. I don’t want to have to ask friends and cousins whom I see maybe once a year if their 5-year-old son/daughter whom I don’t even really like can be my ring bearer/flower girl. I don’t want guys in blue shirts and khaki pants measuring each others’ dicks with the phrase, ‘So, what do you do?’ I don’t want bored out of their mind cater waiters and bartenders, who hate weddings in a way that even I will never understand. I don’t want ‘cocktail hour’ and passed hors d’oeuvres and most people only caring about getting buzzed before the open bar ends. I don’t want to mail out then sort through 300 invitations to find out who wants steak and who wants salmon. I don’t want to be registered at Crate&Barrel. I don’t want my friends finding that all the cheaper items on my registry are gone and that, like, five of them have to go in on a set of overpriced knives. I don’t think I want a registry at all. I don’t want to have to kiss all of my mother’s friends on the cheek, or, even worse, all of my future mother-in-law’s friends. I don’t want a color ‘scheme.’ I don’t want a creepy DJ or a weird band that does a cover of YMCA. And I don’t want the place turning the lights up at 10:30 telling us it’s time to leave. But I do want cake.

Squirrel confessions

1. I bury way, way too many nuts. I mean loads of them. There really is just something fucked-up about how many nuts I bury. And then I can’t even remember where most of them are.

2. I don’t even really like nuts.

3. I worry my tail isn’t bushy enough. Sure it’s bushy, but I look at some of the other squirrels, and their tails look so much bushier than mine, and it just makes me sad, you know?

4. Sometimes I eat my own offspring.

5. I fantasize about having another boy-squirrel pound my little furry ass really, really hard.

6. Often when I’m being chased by a dog, I think I’d like to just stop and let it eat me.

7. I’m scared of heights.

8. I hate the way everyone thinks my twitchy nose is cute. Fuck you, I have allergies!

9. I try to be a decent, tolerant squirrel but I can’t stop thinking that there are too many grey squirrels coming over here and taking trees and nuts from us honest, hard-working red squirrels.

10. Some days I just wish I was a chipmunk instead.

Anti-jokes

Q: What did the farmer say when he lost his tractor?
A: “Where’s my tractor?”

*Knock Knock*
“Who’s there?”
“This is the police, we have a warrant for your arrest.”

A horse walks into a bar.
The bartender looks up and asks him, “Why the long face?”
The horse says, “I have AIDS.”

A Black man, a mexican, and a russian walk into a bar. What a great example of a united society.

Q: What did the homeless man get for Christmas?
A: Nothing

Q: What do you call a Mexican flying a plane?
A: A pilot.

Q: How many electricians does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: One.

A bear walks into a bar. The zoo workers come in afterwards, tranquilize him and take him back to the zoo because he is a bear and he cannot be in a bar.

Q: How do you stop a clown from smiling?
A: Hit it with an axe.

Q: How are a plum and a rabbit alike?
A: They’re both purple, except for the rabbit.

*Knock Knock*
“Who’s there?”
“UPS sir, I have a delivery for you.”
“Oh thank you. This must be the book I ordered from amazon.com.”

A dog walks into a bar and orders a drink. The bartender realizes how silly this is, and wakes up from his dream. He rolls over and tells his wife about it, who ignores him. He begins to cry silently knowing that his marriage is falling into shambles.

Q: What did the black man say to the white woman?
A: I would enjoy having sexual intercourse with you after a few drinks and friendly conversation.

Q: Why did the chicken cross the road?
A: Your mother is a whore.

Too much Xbox?

So what happens when you play too much Xbox?

A half a box of condoms

It is a beautiful sunny day, and my relationship status is such that I am cleaning out my sock drawer. I get to the bottom, and discover 5 blue, foil squares. Ah…old friends, I remember you well. The optimism of buying a box of 12. The butterflies in the stomach on the night of your unveiling. And now you sit abandoned. And, it turns out, soon to expire. I’m a frugal sort. I hate wasting anything. So now I’ve got a timeline for final deployment: August 2009. I’m very task oriented–I love working against a deadline.

Was he a pirate?

Hey, guys, could use your advice about this. I was dating this guy for a few weeks, but it always felt like something was just a little “off.” I finally broke it off with him, but I felt bad doing it.

After discussing it with some co-workers, they suggested that he might have been a pirate. All of a sudden it became clear: the eye-patch, the wooden leg, the way he always had that giant parrot perched on his shoulder. I realized every time he’d kiss me goodnight he would wink and then whisper, “Arrrrr, matey! I had a great time tonight!” His recurring struggle with rickets was troubling to me, too. And during our break-up talk, he became upset and yelled “Avast ye, wench!” and covered his teary eyes with a dirty, red and white striped handkerchief.

What do you think? Was I dating a pirate?

Older Women

I have dated plenty of older women. My experience has been that they far outshine the capabilities of most girls in their early twenties.

The following comments are meant to represent what I have *generally* found to be true, and as such, I am making no mention of occasional exceptions.

Young girls claim they can give great head, for example, but when it gets down to proving it, they often are clueless. Not enough experience.

Young stuff can’t go the distance–I like to hide the sausage for an hour or more, upon each entry–and nearly every young girl I’ve been with has trouble taking it for more than 15 minutes. They just cant stand up to really vigorous punishment.

They often require a lot of tutoring and ‘bringing along’ with regard to exploring their own bodies. There’s a lot they have never tried. They dont know the different types of orgasm they are capable of.

Theyre often slightly selfish in bed, self-centered. Older women, on the other hand, show a really gratifying enthusiasm and genuine appreciation for the opportunity to be with a guy they like, and to have that guy utterly satisfy them. Its not taken lightly and (speaking for myself) I’d rather perform for a receptive audience rather than to someone stuck-up and sulky.

Older women give better pillow-conversation after sex. They have great anecdotes and history, they’re direct, upfront and raunchy and you can have a lot of laughs with them.

Older women are far more stable and grounded than someone who is just entering their twenties. They know themselves really well, and they know their passions, and they know men. They have no hidden romantic or fiscal agendas, and are pretty happy with just a really good fuck.

Older women usually dont balk at a request for anal sex. No problem with it at all. They’re like “sure, luv it, bring it on!” Thats tough to beat.

I will agree that sometimes an older woman can own some signs of wear-and-tear (this is natural enough) but I have rarely seen them at a loss, sexually. (In fact, the best sex I ever had was with a 45 yr old).

Why should a few infirmities make a difference? So a few stretch marks have appeared. Big whoop. Thats just “added character” in my book. If you really, truly love women, it shouldnt be a big deal. I personally think women reach the peak of their beauty in their thirties. A good-looking woman in her thirties is basically a ripening of whatever potential she had when she was 19.

That girl she used to be is usually still there, somewhere within her; but with the passage of time she now has all sorts of wisdom and skill and compassion and humor that make her a helluva lot more fun to be with. In short: you should be able to love a woman at any age, in any circumstance.

I just gotta shake my head at guys who only date young bleach-blonde bimbos: they arent really seeing the whole picture of what women are about.

Give it a try.

I give head like a pornstar

Everyone I’ve ever given head to says its the best they’ve ever had. Well ladies this is why so try and make your man happy.

I LOVE to do it. It absolutely turns me on more than recieving it. I will even feel myselt start to drip.

I look up at him while I’m doing it so he knows I’m loving it. You give him the eyes or that “i fucking love this” face. Literally devour him. Act like you can’t get enough of his cock.

I spend a lot of time licking and sucking his balls while using my hands on him and looking him in the eye… Also–yes I’ll perform a “hummer” if you will

Of course I SWALLOW.. but I also allow him to pull back, jerk into my open waiting mouth and onto my tits.

I always give while on my knees.. He’s either standing up over me holding my hair or he might be sitting on the couch. Either way at some point I will take my breasts and wrap them around his shaft and fuck it while I suck his head. This way he also gets to watch your ass wiggling.

Yes, I have let him give me a pearl necklace. In that case I lick the cum off of my tits and I have him feed it to me off of his fingers.

I’ll talk dirty to him a little bit. Tell him I don’t want him to cum yet because I’m not ready, or that I love the way his hard cock feels in my mouth.. I take my time–he better be prepared to sit there for at least a half hour probably more.

I love to lick and tickle under his balls. THe “taint” if you will. Or I’ll use my thumb to apply light pressure in circular motions or going up and down. I’ll go lower and lower down to the ass if he lets me. If he’s enjoying it, yes I will rim, and yes I have fingered his ass.

When I’m getting really turned on, I’ll reach between my legs and play with myself in front of him. Then I’ll take my soaking wet fingers rub my juice on his head and then suck it off. I’ll also suck my fingers clean for him. If its someone I am dating or something then I’ve even gone so far as to climb onto him.. lower myself.. sit there for about 10 seconds then get back down on my knees and continue sucking.

I deep throat. There have been instances where I dont even realize he came because it’s so far down my throat. If he gags me I keep going.

And its just general technique. I have a very busy tongue and I get him into a great rhythm building him up and slowing down to help prolong and intensify his orgasm. I love to flick my tongue back and forth around his sensitive ridge and all underneath it.

I also SUCK his cock head firmly letting it pass in and out of my mouth, so my lips run over him while he fucks my wet mouth.

I’ll get him nice and wet and use my hand to stroke him in a counter-clockwise motion and then I suck on him going clockwise. The other hand goes to his nipples, balls etc.. but the combined sensations get him so hard.

When he’s ready to cum thats when speed and intensity HAVE TO INCREASE. I bob up and down on him faster and faster and I let him thrust his hips too so I take him even deeper.

After he cums I’ll continue to suck him slowing down intensity and speed, bringing him down from his orgasm until he stops me becuase he’s so sensitive.

And that is why I give head like a pornstar. No, I am not a slut and I do not have STD’s. I’m just a woman who likes to suck cock. Men–there are other women out there like me so don’t give up hope if you have never had great head.

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