I’m a slut for ice cream. Jesus Christ, am I ever.
Well… more accurately, I’m a prostitute for ice cream.
Seriously, if someone tried to barter sex with ice cream…I’d hesitate. There would be no “what the fuck” exclamation or some immediate look of disgust and/or constipation. More of a “this guy gets me”/ “did I just meet my soul mate” look.
It’s sad really. I’d have sex in exchange for some Tasti-D Lite. To be quite honest, Tasti-Delight is legal tender in my fantasy world, as it should be in everyone’s fantasy world.
And if you don’t know what Tasti-D Lite is, get the fuck out of my face, get on Google maps, find the nearest one, buy a pint, come back to my face, spoon feed me the whole pint, and then we’ll have sex.
I may be a little gassy though…. Dairy products always seem to make me gassy…
Like I’ve said before (and if you haven’t already noticed) my life is pathetic/sick/mildly entertaining for anyone how is not me.
My top favorite places in NYC are Tasti-D Lite, Yogurtland, Serendipity, (terrible movie, fucking awesome ice-cream) and McDonalds. I don’t care if there are McDonalds everywhere in the fucking world; their ice cream is like fucking crack. And for that I will always be indebted to Ronald McDonald, you brilliant, brilliant clown you.
I have an addiction. Seriously. I have to eat it everyday or I go ape-shit.
Ever see the movie Requiem for a Dream? That’s my life in a nutshell. And by Requiem for a Dream I mean Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles. And by Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles I mean, The Apple Dumpling Gang. But I think you get the similarities.
But I may have/probably/most definitely woken up half-naked in a pool of my own vomit before…and by before I mean yesterday.
I wish we could do more things with ice cream really. I wish we could snort it, inject it into our veins, use it as shampoo/body wash/lotion.
I’m pretty sure ice cream is the elixir of life. I’m also pretty sure a pint of Ben and Jerry’s would end the war on terror.
What if bullets were made out of ice cream?! Dear god, why hasn’t anyone thought of this before.
And, I think I just figured out how I’m going to get rich, bitches.
I do not want to go to there...
I’m 22 and I’ve never been to the gyno… I know. I know. This is like super duper bad, but come on! Metal-jiggy thingy-mebobber does not make the list of “things I want shoved up my who-hah.”
My mother said I’d either go after I started having sex or when I turned 18. Well, um, I guess she forgot I turned 18 four years ago and I guess I forgot to call her to tell her the great news…
“Hey mom! Guess what?!? I got laid!”
“This is your father.”
And I don’t have an issue with the doctors, but any time I think about going to the lady doctors, I always have this nightmare that the doc whose checking out my girl-junk will either vomit/fart/post a video on his vlog simultaneously while my legs are strapped in the stirrups of doom…
What if he calls in a nurse? And then another? And then another?!
“Is it moving?”
“I think that’s the black hole Einstein was talking about?”
“Are you sure it was Einstein? I thought it was someone else.”
“Whose the doctor, Stewart? And who’s the male nurse”
“Fuck you.”
Next thing I know NBC/CBS/your fucking noisy as fuck neighbor have swarmed into the back corner of my room, to afraid to get in a 5-foot radius of my who-hah without being sucked into an endless pit a doom…like so many fallen brethren before them.
“Its like a train wreck.”
“I just can’t look away. I just can’t.”
Women are vomiting. Men are screaming. Obama has just issued a state of emergency….for America.
Brian Williams, who seems unable to stop gagging, is reporting live to the nation, no, to the world.
“This is the worst thing since hurricane Katrina. This is worse than New Orleans,” he stops to hold back vomit that has secreted into his mouth.
“World… this is hell.”
I’ll become a novelty. Soon, people will want pictures with my who-hah. T-shirts with my lady-stuff and “I’ve been to hell and survived” printed on the front, will be sold out of rickety-old van for $9.95.
Um…I think you see my dilemma.
Unless I get a cut of the profits, then I’ve got a really good idea for some new products...
All in all, I like to think that a little self-examination with a small hand mirror is all I really need in life. That is all I need right?
Right?!
My mother said I’d either go after I started having sex or when I turned 18. Well, um, I guess she forgot I turned 18 four years ago and I guess I forgot to call her to tell her the great news…
“Hey mom! Guess what?!? I got laid!”
“This is your father.”
And I don’t have an issue with the doctors, but any time I think about going to the lady doctors, I always have this nightmare that the doc whose checking out my girl-junk will either vomit/fart/post a video on his vlog simultaneously while my legs are strapped in the stirrups of doom…
What if he calls in a nurse? And then another? And then another?!
“Is it moving?”
“I think that’s the black hole Einstein was talking about?”
“Are you sure it was Einstein? I thought it was someone else.”
“Whose the doctor, Stewart? And who’s the male nurse”
“Fuck you.”
Next thing I know NBC/CBS/your fucking noisy as fuck neighbor have swarmed into the back corner of my room, to afraid to get in a 5-foot radius of my who-hah without being sucked into an endless pit a doom…like so many fallen brethren before them.
“Its like a train wreck.”
“I just can’t look away. I just can’t.”
Women are vomiting. Men are screaming. Obama has just issued a state of emergency….for America.
Brian Williams, who seems unable to stop gagging, is reporting live to the nation, no, to the world.
“This is the worst thing since hurricane Katrina. This is worse than New Orleans,” he stops to hold back vomit that has secreted into his mouth.
“World… this is hell.”
I’ll become a novelty. Soon, people will want pictures with my who-hah. T-shirts with my lady-stuff and “I’ve been to hell and survived” printed on the front, will be sold out of rickety-old van for $9.95.
Um…I think you see my dilemma.
Unless I get a cut of the profits, then I’ve got a really good idea for some new products...
All in all, I like to think that a little self-examination with a small hand mirror is all I really need in life. That is all I need right?
Right?!
And the winners are...
First and foremost, I want to thank all of you who submitted stories, they were fucking hilarious and it was almost impossible to choose. I’m even thinking about using them as guest post (if you guys are cool with it…we’ll talk).
Drum roll please……..
So the Grand Prize goes to Ms. Laura with a story that made me piss my pants. Short, sweet and not exactly boner approved:
So my first boyfriend and I had been having sex for about two months.
One night he was having a difficult time getting hard because he had been drinking. Since it took awhile, I began to space out and thought about random things as he ripped open the condom wrapper and as he put it on. I realized, then, that my thoughts had been swirling around one, very, essential question: "Honey, if you were going to rape me, would you wear a condom?" And then I farted, he lost his boner and we didn't have sex that night.
He still makes fun of me for that night.
And my two runner ups are:
1. Ms. Joanna at http://notesfromalabprincess.blogspot.com/ :
Let's rewind back a good 3 summers ago, to a time when I was horny and had not had sex in over a year. Hey, if we're being honest here, it was well over a year and I was getting desperate. I met this guy at a mutual friends apartment at the beginning of the summer, and he was SO not my type. I mean complete nerd, wore the glasses, and I'm sure if he still lived at home his mom would pick out his matching polo/jean/tennis shoes combination to wear every day. About 2 weeks after the first and only time we hung out, he finally did the oh so popular thing of adding me on Facebook, finding my AOL instant messenger, and starting a conversation. After dinking around and doing the small talk thing, he finally asked me out on a date.
For the record, this was my first technical "date" ever. I don't do dates, well at that time I didn't do "dates". I also didn't do "boyfriends". Think of what Samantha from Sex and the City would be like when she was 20. So this was unfamiliar territory for me. The first mistake, and sign that this was all going to go badly for me, was when he picked out our first date to be a movie, and to top it all off, he picked....Knocked Up. And let it go on the record that is the WORST movie to see on a first date. Awkward, and definitely ensures that you're not getting ANY anytime soon.
Turns out this guy was uber into me, and well, I was getting some hot make-out sessions, so I figured why not keep it going, it can't be that bad, can it? Well of course it can!
About 3 weeks into our "relationship", my dad died. So of course I drop of the face of the earth, and don't re-emerge until about another 3 weeks later. I want nothing to do with any sort of commitment, relationship, or anything requiring any sort of emotion. Perfect time to have lots of mindless sex....Or so I thought.
Of course I was the first one to make a move, the boy was a virgin. That should have been sign #2 that it was going to end badly. So I started with the "wandering hand" while we would make-out, and thank goodness things began to progress from there. Eventually he progressed to some bumping and grinding and rubbing all up on each other. But eventually it stopped progressing from there and I was horny as hell and this was getting way to unsatisfying. I was ready for some hot and heavy non-emotionally connected sex. There was just one BIG problem (and no, it was not the size of his ding dong).
This boy came like it was his job. And this was before we even started having sex! I mean he was getting off like a prepubescent boy who realized he could rub one out constantly. There was one time he looked at me, I didn't even touch him, and he came. It was unbelievable. So I was getting even more desperate and pretty sick of him always getting off and me just becoming sleep deprived with a tired jaw. How bad could the sex be anyways? Maybe he just needed some va-jay-jay to cure his quickness.
So it was finally time to do the deed. And boy was it a memorable minute and a half. It was as if he were masturbating with my vagina. I laid there and attempted to see the TV that was directly behind him. Luckily it didn't last that long, so I could get back to watching my movie. Sadly, he wanted to go at it again, and who would I be to deprive a boy of sex. Who knows, maybe I could finally get off? What's the worst that could happen, I miss another 2 minutes of my movie?
Wrong. And it gets worse. He finished again and as he lay there still inside of me, I realize he's starting to cry. And we're not talking one glistening tear, he was sobbing. Full on balling his heart out. And just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, he says (while still sobbing, try to get a good mental picture here), "I just love you so much, I don't know how to handle all of this love. You're just so amazing, I love you sooooooo much!"
There were tears, and I love you, and he was still inside me. All I could think of was "I can't laugh. I can't laugh. I cannot laugh at him right now.How am I going to get out of this one, I can't ever see him again. Don't laugh." At least I can look back on it now and laugh, but at the time the crying and the "I love you" was just too much at the time. Needless to say I avoided him for the next week and broke up with him the day after our 2 month anniversary. Tragic it took me that long to break it off. Like I said, should have known it would be bad when he picked Knocked Up as our first date movie.
And last but not least, Ms. Jas, at http://www.smilebigandpretty.com/ with “Healthy Masturbation: How I Learned the Hard Way.”
As a child, my parents were always slapping my hands because I was touching myself or ripping off my clothes in public. They eventually learned not to give me any kind of toy that shook or vibrated (See you later, Elmo.) I hopped on the hormone train when I was nine years old - early, early bloomer. I was that girl; the one who walked into fifth grade with a small set of boobs and hormones already already simmering. I straddled pillows and other random crap because it felt good. It should go without saying, but I'll say it anyway: I was always a sexual being.
I was thirteen, almost fourteen, when I began to seriously try and masturbate to achieve an orgasm instead of poke around down there to see what was up. I had seen the movies. My prettier, social butterfly best friend had already had a close encounter with a boy. Relying on film scenes from the late 90's and early 2000's or on my prettier friend to tell me what an orgasm felt like while I suffered through some hellacious hormonal urges was torture. I needed to figure out how to come, and quickly. Fingers didn't work for me; they never have. I always gave up after laying in my bed, wondering why the hell I was rubbing off for eleven billion hours with no orgasm to speak of. I went onto an internet chat room - you know, one of those "for teens only" rooms that, in reality, was probably crawling with 30 and 40 something old men - and asked, "I need to have an orgasm. What do I do?"
HOTGUY18: get a dildo.
ME: I can't.
HOTGUY18: why
ME: I'm too young to buy one.
HOTGUY18: want 2 cyber, a/s/l
*CUTIEPIE2000*: hm maybe a banana
BKSTRTBOYZ4LIFE: a pencil
*CUTIEPIE2000*: oh try a hairbrush handle
Bkstrtboyz4life was a fucking moron, because that pencil didn't do shit. I tried the hair brush handle. Nothing. I tried the banana, but I was a dumbass and peeled it first. It broke off inside me and I spent the next half hour frantically shoveling banana mush out of the danger zone. I went to the kitchen to put the spoon in the dishwasher and hide the evidence when I spotted an empty wine bottle near the recycling. My mind began racing: Could that maybe...? No, don't even think about it. But still. I bet...
I grabbed the bottle, washed it with some soap and water, and shut myself in my bedroom. I put some music on. I sat on my bed and worked up my nerves to do it. This was it. This was going to do something. And I pushed it in a little. And then a little more. Uncomfortable, but I had read that the first time you stick something in there wasn't going to be a parade of fun, so I kept going. And suddenly, I felt something rip and the most uncomfortable sting in my life. I didn't know this at that point, but I had broken my hymen with a goddamn wine bottle.
It really hurt, so I tried to pull the bottle out. Only the bottle wasn't budging.
I pulled harder, but no luck: I was too sore and that bottle was lodged up in there. I began to cry and panic. What do I do now? I have to get this out. Can I call someone? Can I even walk to the phone to call someone? Oh my god, what the hell is going to happen to me?
I sat on my bed, bawling like a baby, until my mother got home from work and heard me in my bedroom. I had covered myself with a blanket by the time she got to my bedroom.
"What's wrong, sweetie?" She asked. She had most likely assumed that I was crying because of my lack of social success at school. Oh, how she was wrong. I lifted the blanket and her expression changed instantly. "The hell have you done to yourself?"
"It's," I managed to get out, "It's stuck!"
"Oh my god."
My mother and I sat there, trying to will the wine bottle out of my vagina, for another half hour before she threw her hands up and said, "I don't know what else to do. We have to go to the emergency room."
"BUT -"
"Don't do that! What the hell were you thinking, sticking a wine bottle up your cooch? What in the world made you think that was a good idea?"
I was silent all the way to the hospital. I had to walk into that lobby with a large blanket draped around by body while I held the wine bottle in place so that it wouldn't dangle and damage my insides. There were a few people ahead of us with legitimate and life threatening emergencies, so my mother, my wine bottle dildo, and I had to wait in the lobby for another half hour until a nurse came and fetched us.
I could tell that the doctor wanted to laugh at me; he even called in two more nurses so that they could "have a look." They explained to me what had happened: the wine bottle, because it was uncapped, had created a suction cup effect when it got so far up into my vagina that it broke my hymen. It's like that trick you can do when you suck on a plastic drinking cup so that it sticks to your face except, this time, it was a wine bottle and my vagina.
In the end, they managed to get it out by making my lie down and try a variety of interesting positions while they tapped on the bottle with special hammers. A few days later, when I had somewhat recovered physically, my mother would sit me down and give me an important talk about masturbation and hygiene. Specifically, why I should never put a wine bottle, "or any other kind of bottle, for that matter," in my vagina again. That initial long silence on the way home from the ER, however, was only interrupted by her quietly saying,
"I think that it would be a good idea to keep this a secret from your father."
Drum roll please……..
So the Grand Prize goes to Ms. Laura with a story that made me piss my pants. Short, sweet and not exactly boner approved:
So my first boyfriend and I had been having sex for about two months.
One night he was having a difficult time getting hard because he had been drinking. Since it took awhile, I began to space out and thought about random things as he ripped open the condom wrapper and as he put it on. I realized, then, that my thoughts had been swirling around one, very, essential question: "Honey, if you were going to rape me, would you wear a condom?" And then I farted, he lost his boner and we didn't have sex that night.
He still makes fun of me for that night.
And my two runner ups are:
1. Ms. Joanna at http://notesfromalabprincess.blogspot.com/ :
Let's rewind back a good 3 summers ago, to a time when I was horny and had not had sex in over a year. Hey, if we're being honest here, it was well over a year and I was getting desperate. I met this guy at a mutual friends apartment at the beginning of the summer, and he was SO not my type. I mean complete nerd, wore the glasses, and I'm sure if he still lived at home his mom would pick out his matching polo/jean/tennis shoes combination to wear every day. About 2 weeks after the first and only time we hung out, he finally did the oh so popular thing of adding me on Facebook, finding my AOL instant messenger, and starting a conversation. After dinking around and doing the small talk thing, he finally asked me out on a date.
For the record, this was my first technical "date" ever. I don't do dates, well at that time I didn't do "dates". I also didn't do "boyfriends". Think of what Samantha from Sex and the City would be like when she was 20. So this was unfamiliar territory for me. The first mistake, and sign that this was all going to go badly for me, was when he picked out our first date to be a movie, and to top it all off, he picked....Knocked Up. And let it go on the record that is the WORST movie to see on a first date. Awkward, and definitely ensures that you're not getting ANY anytime soon.
Turns out this guy was uber into me, and well, I was getting some hot make-out sessions, so I figured why not keep it going, it can't be that bad, can it? Well of course it can!
About 3 weeks into our "relationship", my dad died. So of course I drop of the face of the earth, and don't re-emerge until about another 3 weeks later. I want nothing to do with any sort of commitment, relationship, or anything requiring any sort of emotion. Perfect time to have lots of mindless sex....Or so I thought.
Of course I was the first one to make a move, the boy was a virgin. That should have been sign #2 that it was going to end badly. So I started with the "wandering hand" while we would make-out, and thank goodness things began to progress from there. Eventually he progressed to some bumping and grinding and rubbing all up on each other. But eventually it stopped progressing from there and I was horny as hell and this was getting way to unsatisfying. I was ready for some hot and heavy non-emotionally connected sex. There was just one BIG problem (and no, it was not the size of his ding dong).
This boy came like it was his job. And this was before we even started having sex! I mean he was getting off like a prepubescent boy who realized he could rub one out constantly. There was one time he looked at me, I didn't even touch him, and he came. It was unbelievable. So I was getting even more desperate and pretty sick of him always getting off and me just becoming sleep deprived with a tired jaw. How bad could the sex be anyways? Maybe he just needed some va-jay-jay to cure his quickness.
So it was finally time to do the deed. And boy was it a memorable minute and a half. It was as if he were masturbating with my vagina. I laid there and attempted to see the TV that was directly behind him. Luckily it didn't last that long, so I could get back to watching my movie. Sadly, he wanted to go at it again, and who would I be to deprive a boy of sex. Who knows, maybe I could finally get off? What's the worst that could happen, I miss another 2 minutes of my movie?
Wrong. And it gets worse. He finished again and as he lay there still inside of me, I realize he's starting to cry. And we're not talking one glistening tear, he was sobbing. Full on balling his heart out. And just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, he says (while still sobbing, try to get a good mental picture here), "I just love you so much, I don't know how to handle all of this love. You're just so amazing, I love you sooooooo much!"
There were tears, and I love you, and he was still inside me. All I could think of was "I can't laugh. I can't laugh. I cannot laugh at him right now.How am I going to get out of this one, I can't ever see him again. Don't laugh." At least I can look back on it now and laugh, but at the time the crying and the "I love you" was just too much at the time. Needless to say I avoided him for the next week and broke up with him the day after our 2 month anniversary. Tragic it took me that long to break it off. Like I said, should have known it would be bad when he picked Knocked Up as our first date movie.
And last but not least, Ms. Jas, at http://www.smilebigandpretty.com/ with “Healthy Masturbation: How I Learned the Hard Way.”
As a child, my parents were always slapping my hands because I was touching myself or ripping off my clothes in public. They eventually learned not to give me any kind of toy that shook or vibrated (See you later, Elmo.) I hopped on the hormone train when I was nine years old - early, early bloomer. I was that girl; the one who walked into fifth grade with a small set of boobs and hormones already already simmering. I straddled pillows and other random crap because it felt good. It should go without saying, but I'll say it anyway: I was always a sexual being.
I was thirteen, almost fourteen, when I began to seriously try and masturbate to achieve an orgasm instead of poke around down there to see what was up. I had seen the movies. My prettier, social butterfly best friend had already had a close encounter with a boy. Relying on film scenes from the late 90's and early 2000's or on my prettier friend to tell me what an orgasm felt like while I suffered through some hellacious hormonal urges was torture. I needed to figure out how to come, and quickly. Fingers didn't work for me; they never have. I always gave up after laying in my bed, wondering why the hell I was rubbing off for eleven billion hours with no orgasm to speak of. I went onto an internet chat room - you know, one of those "for teens only" rooms that, in reality, was probably crawling with 30 and 40 something old men - and asked, "I need to have an orgasm. What do I do?"
HOTGUY18: get a dildo.
ME: I can't.
HOTGUY18: why
ME: I'm too young to buy one.
HOTGUY18: want 2 cyber, a/s/l
*CUTIEPIE2000*: hm maybe a banana
BKSTRTBOYZ4LIFE: a pencil
*CUTIEPIE2000*: oh try a hairbrush handle
Bkstrtboyz4life was a fucking moron, because that pencil didn't do shit. I tried the hair brush handle. Nothing. I tried the banana, but I was a dumbass and peeled it first. It broke off inside me and I spent the next half hour frantically shoveling banana mush out of the danger zone. I went to the kitchen to put the spoon in the dishwasher and hide the evidence when I spotted an empty wine bottle near the recycling. My mind began racing: Could that maybe...? No, don't even think about it. But still. I bet...
I grabbed the bottle, washed it with some soap and water, and shut myself in my bedroom. I put some music on. I sat on my bed and worked up my nerves to do it. This was it. This was going to do something. And I pushed it in a little. And then a little more. Uncomfortable, but I had read that the first time you stick something in there wasn't going to be a parade of fun, so I kept going. And suddenly, I felt something rip and the most uncomfortable sting in my life. I didn't know this at that point, but I had broken my hymen with a goddamn wine bottle.
It really hurt, so I tried to pull the bottle out. Only the bottle wasn't budging.
I pulled harder, but no luck: I was too sore and that bottle was lodged up in there. I began to cry and panic. What do I do now? I have to get this out. Can I call someone? Can I even walk to the phone to call someone? Oh my god, what the hell is going to happen to me?
I sat on my bed, bawling like a baby, until my mother got home from work and heard me in my bedroom. I had covered myself with a blanket by the time she got to my bedroom.
"What's wrong, sweetie?" She asked. She had most likely assumed that I was crying because of my lack of social success at school. Oh, how she was wrong. I lifted the blanket and her expression changed instantly. "The hell have you done to yourself?"
"It's," I managed to get out, "It's stuck!"
"Oh my god."
My mother and I sat there, trying to will the wine bottle out of my vagina, for another half hour before she threw her hands up and said, "I don't know what else to do. We have to go to the emergency room."
"BUT -"
"Don't do that! What the hell were you thinking, sticking a wine bottle up your cooch? What in the world made you think that was a good idea?"
I was silent all the way to the hospital. I had to walk into that lobby with a large blanket draped around by body while I held the wine bottle in place so that it wouldn't dangle and damage my insides. There were a few people ahead of us with legitimate and life threatening emergencies, so my mother, my wine bottle dildo, and I had to wait in the lobby for another half hour until a nurse came and fetched us.
I could tell that the doctor wanted to laugh at me; he even called in two more nurses so that they could "have a look." They explained to me what had happened: the wine bottle, because it was uncapped, had created a suction cup effect when it got so far up into my vagina that it broke my hymen. It's like that trick you can do when you suck on a plastic drinking cup so that it sticks to your face except, this time, it was a wine bottle and my vagina.
In the end, they managed to get it out by making my lie down and try a variety of interesting positions while they tapped on the bottle with special hammers. A few days later, when I had somewhat recovered physically, my mother would sit me down and give me an important talk about masturbation and hygiene. Specifically, why I should never put a wine bottle, "or any other kind of bottle, for that matter," in my vagina again. That initial long silence on the way home from the ER, however, was only interrupted by her quietly saying,
"I think that it would be a good idea to keep this a secret from your father."
Oh halloween and whores....
Seeing as Halloween is a just around the corner and the whores are in search of their next big costumes without getting arrested for pulling tricks. I thought I’d save you all the hassle and give you my top picks for this year’s whore-ostumes.
1. Debbie Downer.
“Did you know that 95% of all Halloween candy is filled with rat poison and previously used hypodermic needles?”
2. Theresa from The Housewives of New Jersey.
I think a gorilla suit will suffice for this one... she's just so goddamn hairy...
3. Kitty Sanchez from Arrested Development.
“Have we done hair up glasses off yet?”
4. Suze Orman.
5. Snooki.
6. Judy from The Laurence Welk Show.
You’ll have to fend off the men with your baby hands.
7. Sarah Palin.
8. Octo-mom.
I think this one would be best if you staged the birth on the beer pong table.
9. Boobs.
Honestly, I don’t know how the fuck you’d come as a pair of boobs, but how fucking epic would that shit be?! Talk about cutting the middleman out, whores.
The Solution.
I hate it when I’m feeling really skinny and then I catch my thighs jiggling in the mirror, even though technically I wasn’t moving. At all.
I’m white, okay. White as one can be. A cracker. Caucasian some might say. I come from the land of Caucasia, where my fellow tribal members frolic to the barbaric beats of Michael Buble and watch Gilmore Girls.
So of course I’m obsessed with my weight. I blame the cast of Friends; all those whores were skinny as fuck and still had man problems. Even Chandler had an eating disorder. Nothing says white quite like a grown man who vomits after he eats.
I wish I were black. Seriously, you guys embrace that shit. Fat ass? Aw helllllll no, that shit is juicy. Or more accurately, Jell-O. Watch that shit jiggle!
Remember back in the good ol’ days/Dark Ages/last night at McDonalds parking lot, when being obese was the cool thing to do?
It meant you had a shit ton of money and thus were allowed to shove food into your face until you’ve reached sexual repulsion…. I was born in the wrong century…
Now all obesity means is you probably like Dunkaroos way more than the average person… which, um who the fuck doesn’t?
Goddamn, Dunkaroos are awesome. Especially the chocolate ones. Hot damn it’s like sex in my mouth, that I can actually enjoy.
I think this world would be a better place if we all ate lard. I’m serious. Don’t you agree?
It would be just like this whole “I don’t see color” charade, except more realistic. We would only be able to see one shape. Huge.
We’d all win. We’d get to eat whatever we wanted, the naturally skinny bitches that we all hated in high school would probably be accidently eaten when the food supply runs out and sex would inevitably get better because we’d all be forced to actually try.
I think we all know why its called the Dark Ages, cause no bitch wanted to turn the lights on during sex. And honestly, my fat ass will be happy to make that sacrifice.
Help Me...
Unemployment has made me realize one thing, that I can never ever ever become a housewife.
My hardest decision of the day has become whether or not to watch porn on this beautiful morning. And honestly, Wizards of Cocks just isn’t that entertaining after the umpteenth time.
“I’ll get you my pretty and your little penis too!”
It’s crazy how quickly our fantasies become our nightmares…
And the worst part is Wizards of Cocks isn't even a real porno. (That I know of, at least.) I just have so much free time on my hands, a whole whopping 24 hours a day, that I just made that up.
Help me…hire me…buy me a male prostitute…anything to get me out of this weird funk.
I’m going crazy!
I just sprayed vanilla icing on a mini donut… that will probably be the highlight of my day.
I’ve even become that girl…. that girl who talks about her blog constantly. It’s so sad. I won’t even leave the house anymore because I don’t want people to see the sick monster I’ve become.
“Who’s that?”
“Don’t you remember her?! That’s that girl who talks about her blog.”
“Disgusting.”
“Yeah, and it’s not even that good.”
I fall asleep to The Nanny and wake up to Dora the Explorer (I sleep with the TV on, its not like I like Dora or some weird shit like that).
I’ve thought of a million ways to kill Dora actually. Throw head into a microwave. Shove her into a cockfight. Give Boots a hand knife and let that crazy monkey have at it.
Again…I’m going crazy.
My parents have a cockatoo. I shit you not, a cockatoo. A teenaged cockatoo, that thinks its soooooooooooo much fun to scream 16 hours a day. That little shit. That too has also been added to the list of “things I dream of killing.” Dora the Explorer…the cockatoo…the one person who actually thinks George Lopez is funny.
Seriously who the fuck is that one person who finds George Lopez funny? You’re ruining late night television for everyone you sick fuck.
God, I need help…
My hardest decision of the day has become whether or not to watch porn on this beautiful morning. And honestly, Wizards of Cocks just isn’t that entertaining after the umpteenth time.
“I’ll get you my pretty and your little penis too!”
It’s crazy how quickly our fantasies become our nightmares…
And the worst part is Wizards of Cocks isn't even a real porno. (That I know of, at least.) I just have so much free time on my hands, a whole whopping 24 hours a day, that I just made that up.
Help me…hire me…buy me a male prostitute…anything to get me out of this weird funk.
I’m going crazy!
I just sprayed vanilla icing on a mini donut… that will probably be the highlight of my day.
I’ve even become that girl…. that girl who talks about her blog constantly. It’s so sad. I won’t even leave the house anymore because I don’t want people to see the sick monster I’ve become.
“Who’s that?”
“Don’t you remember her?! That’s that girl who talks about her blog.”
“Disgusting.”
“Yeah, and it’s not even that good.”
I fall asleep to The Nanny and wake up to Dora the Explorer (I sleep with the TV on, its not like I like Dora or some weird shit like that).
I’ve thought of a million ways to kill Dora actually. Throw head into a microwave. Shove her into a cockfight. Give Boots a hand knife and let that crazy monkey have at it.
Again…I’m going crazy.
My parents have a cockatoo. I shit you not, a cockatoo. A teenaged cockatoo, that thinks its soooooooooooo much fun to scream 16 hours a day. That little shit. That too has also been added to the list of “things I dream of killing.” Dora the Explorer…the cockatoo…the one person who actually thinks George Lopez is funny.
Seriously who the fuck is that one person who finds George Lopez funny? You’re ruining late night television for everyone you sick fuck.
God, I need help…
Diet Tips via the Madre.
Dear America,
I’m sick of seeing morbidly obese women fashioning a tube-top or worse…muffin top. Yes, America, I get that muffin top is in style but one day it will end and you’re just going to feel stupid… and disgusting and sexually repulsive. And let’s be honest you already are.
So to help I’m bestowing my mother’s secret(s) to weight loss success. No, it’s not “counting calories” or “exercising.” That nonsense is for pussies.
1. Chew and Spew.
Now, chew and spew doesn’t translate into bulimia, because you technically never swallow the food. You “chew” then “spew.” It’s like a lighter version of regurgitation; except instead of feeding a baby bird (if you were a bird), you’re just spitting into a trash can/ toilet/ your neighbor’s mailbox. The whole idea is to allow your mind to savor the sweet nectars of the fried/diabetes infused/ heart attack causing food, while reminding your body that you are a part of society that should enter Biggest Loser.
2. Sugar Alcohol.
I don’t think people realize how much shit is inside of them. Twelve pounds on average. So why not shove 13 Atkins bars loaded with sugar alcohol into your black hole of a mouth and just wait for the pounds to slide neatly out of your butt. Except it may not “slide” out per say. You might/possibly/definitely will experience 7 to 8 hours of horrible cramping, butt leakage, and fatal gas. It’s just like having diarrhea, except in this case you did on purpose.
3. Fiber Gummies.
They look so innocent, all tasty and poop enhancing. But I will admit they are the best way to lose weight the lazy way. With 2.5 grams of fiber in each gummy, just by dropping 19 gummies on top of your diabetes sundae you’ll be peeing out of your butt hole all night long. And that is a great night in my book. Eat fiber, poop out pounds. It’s basic geometry.
I’m sick of seeing morbidly obese women fashioning a tube-top or worse…muffin top. Yes, America, I get that muffin top is in style but one day it will end and you’re just going to feel stupid… and disgusting and sexually repulsive. And let’s be honest you already are.
So to help I’m bestowing my mother’s secret(s) to weight loss success. No, it’s not “counting calories” or “exercising.” That nonsense is for pussies.
1. Chew and Spew.
Now, chew and spew doesn’t translate into bulimia, because you technically never swallow the food. You “chew” then “spew.” It’s like a lighter version of regurgitation; except instead of feeding a baby bird (if you were a bird), you’re just spitting into a trash can/ toilet/ your neighbor’s mailbox. The whole idea is to allow your mind to savor the sweet nectars of the fried/diabetes infused/ heart attack causing food, while reminding your body that you are a part of society that should enter Biggest Loser.
2. Sugar Alcohol.
I don’t think people realize how much shit is inside of them. Twelve pounds on average. So why not shove 13 Atkins bars loaded with sugar alcohol into your black hole of a mouth and just wait for the pounds to slide neatly out of your butt. Except it may not “slide” out per say. You might/possibly/definitely will experience 7 to 8 hours of horrible cramping, butt leakage, and fatal gas. It’s just like having diarrhea, except in this case you did on purpose.
3. Fiber Gummies.
They look so innocent, all tasty and poop enhancing. But I will admit they are the best way to lose weight the lazy way. With 2.5 grams of fiber in each gummy, just by dropping 19 gummies on top of your diabetes sundae you’ll be peeing out of your butt hole all night long. And that is a great night in my book. Eat fiber, poop out pounds. It’s basic geometry.
Oh, I'm excited!
So guys get ready, I’m about to pop my first contest/giveaway cherry…. This could get messy…
Are you ready?!? Are you excited?!?! Do you have a pack of napkins handy?!?
And now I introduce the, “Best Hilarious/Terrible Sexual Escapade” Contest.
What is a hilarious/terrible sexual escapade you ask? It’s simple, it’s the worst thing that that has happened to you sexually that honestly w
as fucking hilarious.
To participate all you have to do is email me your story @ awkwardsexandthecity@gmail.com .
Yep, that’s it. None of this “follow me” mumbo jumbo.
Two weeks from now I will pick the best 3 stories and post them.
The grand prize winner will get a new copy of:
“Position Of The Day Playbook: Sex Every Day In Every Way.”
Ooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Did I mention it's the paperback edition too? Yeah, paperback. Niceee.
So good luck ladies and gents. I’m super excited and I hope you are too!
Whoever thought that bad lay could give you 365 ways to get laid? Heyo!
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