Previous to being whisked away to the coffee shop, I was telling one of the folks sharing our curious living arrangement about several of my comical past failures. You may or may not have heard my many varied stories of self-abuse and missed opportunities, but trust me, they are entertaining at least and being funny is one of my favorite things. Which explains why I do not keep the company of republicans or religious figures. They wouldn’t know a joke if it bit them on the dick while wearing a clown nose. Who’s wearing the clown nose here, you ask? Hell, you pick. Think of this joke as a ‘choose -your-own-adventure’ book, but without having to pick whether to sacrifice your dog to Satanists or commit arson. I always got to that page, and I always felt I picked wrong. Sorry, Whiskers.
Looking back, these stories of failure and regret tend to have one thing in common. Each one of my finest stories has my penis as either star, co-star, or main writer. I usually end up as the grip or cameraman, playing second fiddle to my first fiddle. In fact, a quick rundown of my three favorite stories, here indicated by a single word (Colorado, Modem, 115) were in fact centered squarely on my gentleman vegetables, with a running theme of betrayal and confusion by said private produce. In fact, two other stories only appropriate after the lights go out (Butterfly, Scaffold) also focus on the same, but in a different capacity.
However, since things are on the move, it seems that the shelf life of these stories is approaching. It may be inconvenient and confusing to share these stories in particular as after a while I must maintain the illusion that I am without the company of Heavy D and the Boys. I don’t really necessarily I feel I have to adhere to each and every gender norm or expected behavior as a female, but I’m relatively sure referencing one’s own dick as an instrument of failure is surely no way for a lady to talk. In fact, if you are in a bar or some such, and a lady starts telling you about the qualities and dimensions of their own rock-em-sock-em-robot, be prepared to pay an extra twenty on top of the standard fee(s) later in the hotel room.*
Anyway, I guess what I’m saying is I can’t be all spreading most of these stories around. They’d raise more questions than spirits, you know? Well, dear reader, that just means that they are special stories and you are lucky to have heard them. If you have not heard them, there is a darn good reason. Probably because I’d get a lecture and a disappointed look from you, you square.
*Yeah, I know that joke about prostitution is in poor taste, but them’s the breaks. I don’t like it any more than you do, but I have an audience to entertain. Besides, those who have required the services of professionals in this regard know what’s up. Money for nothin’ and your chicks for free? Not if they’re beating you down the tape measure, that’s for damn sure.**
**This is probably inadvertently really offensive to someone, but the image in my head created by this idea makes me giggle so it stays. People are too easily offended these days, anyway. However, if you are displeased with the joke, I’ll send you a refund for the full cost of reading the blog posthaste.***
***I’m not actually sending refunds.
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