The Excitement is Coming!

Wow, over five days of not writing. I'm actually surprised I couldn't think of a suitable topic in a whole week. However, since I owe it to my devoted fan (singular), I better write something.

I couldn't be creative this week since I changed my exercise routine to get rid of this spare tire of mine.



But then I remembered how my last car had four flats, so I decided to keep the spare tire. Instead, I will work on my love handles. I feel odd calling them love handles since I don't have a significant other. Hint hint. If anyone is willing to take the job, I'm offering minimum wage plus tips and a 401K. The only prerequisite is you have to own a live hole.



Anyway...

Since I can't think of a good topic, I will fall back on a sure-fire subject that everyone of all ages can enjoy. Penises!

Yeah, being a tiny wanker does effect the psyche. It lowers your self esteem.



It gets even worse when you hear girls giggle about the size of a normal man's peepee. Then you start to compare yourself with other men. Unfortunately, the only other men you can find to compare yourself to are buff, Hollywood types. I'm like sooo sure I'm way more hunky than Vin Diesel.

The problem with lying to yourself is that it doesn't take long to figure out it's a lie.



OK, time to be jerked back to reality. I don't want to make a mountain out of a molehill, so I'll just stop beating around the bush. This story has a happy ending.



It's a short story, so bare with me.

The other day I was hanging around, just playing with my balls when I saw a commercial for a male enhancement drug.



I sprung up to attention like a dog in heat. I was so excited by the news I was bursting at the seams. I could barely contain myself. I grabbed a knob and exited my room. I needed to take stock of the situation and size things up.

Here's where I stood. Disappointing start, but things could only go up up up.



Now I knew where I measured up, and I stroked my hands with glee. Soon I would be as happy and glowing as the Enzyte man. Once I finished the treatment, I would be so confident that I would be able to sow the seeds of joy a long way across the land. Women would love me and erect a statue in my honor.



I started the treatment. It involved swallowing a lot of sticky fluids, but I had the fortitude to handle any testes thrown my way.

The treatment included not only drugs, but exercise as well. There was a lot of pumping up and down, and some Greek based calisthenics. Butt I could take it all in. I'm sure it wouldn't be too long. Knock on wood.



Then the day finally came. The moment of climax. I looked in the mirror to check the length and breadth of the event. I almost prematurely declared victory, but then I got my head back straight. Taking matters in my own hands, I engorged myself in the moment.



YES! Victory! The added bulk and girth to my anatomy really allowed me to stroke my own ego. I was brimming with self confidence.



No longer would I be considered small and insignificant. I was a giant! I was a man of great talent. Head above the rest. Tears of joy squirted from my orifices. I was a winner! Cocksure and headstrong.



Unfortunately, no one would get to see how well endowed I was. I guess sometimes you win some and sometimes you lose some. I have a big, fat cock, so I don't care. nanny nanny boo boo.

And that's the long and short of it.


***No one-eyed monsters were hurt or beaten during the making of this blog

****hehe just yanking ya. Turns out a few sheep were hit in their brown eyes.


Oh,




and



by the way






This blog is not work safe. Haha caught you, sucker. Don't be hard on yourself. You couldn't see it coming.

In Response to the Critics

Just for the record, I'm not gay. However, it's been so long since I had a relationship, I will consider homosexuality a plan B.

This reminds me of a true story:

One day, several years ago, I found myself shopping in Border's Books.



I picked up a few DVDs and magazines and proceeded to the queue.



Hark! Lo and behold, there was a very sexy girl at one of the registers. Mmmmm boy.



I sweated bullets while I counted the people standing before me in the queue. Would I be lucky enough to get the cutie's register? Would I have the guts to say anything? I basically panicked like any geek should.



Yes! I'm the next person in line. I'm going to be helped next, and the pretty girl is about to finish her sale. I am a WINNER!



"Can I help the next person in line," the girl said in a sweet, baritone voice. Baritone? Huh? I stepped up and took a closer look. Egads!



I was checking out a guy!

He's Making a List; Checking it Twice

I've been had. Yup. I've been hornswaggled. I can't believe it took me this long to figure out the conspiracy.

For a long time now I've been getting down on myself. This usually happens when I'm lonely. I try to figure out a reason why my luck with the fairer (though more devious) sex really sucks and I start to nitpick on all my shortcomings. Then usually someone comes over and blows air up my ass. They give me a bunch of false compliments to boost my morale. Of course, I'm so starved for attention, I buy everything hook, line, and sinker.

How bad can my love life be? I asked a girl out once and she turned into a lesbian.

Now someone of my superior intellect can only be duped for so long. (15 years) I was bound to figure it all out. I happened upon an article on building self esteem on athealth.com. There was a suggestion in the article to make a list of your positive attributes and stuff. So I spent a few hours going over the things I possess that could be a positive with the vaginal sex. It wasn't a long list.

OK, here is the list. I removed anything not uncommon. The list should consist of things almost-sort-of-kinda unique to me. Therefore, ten fingers, ten toes was removed.

1: I have broadband. YouTube and porn at light speeds.



2: I own a sports camcorder. It's a nifty video camera that fits in your pocket.



C: I own an economy sportbike. Yeah, it's not the top model, but most girls are too stupid to know that.



D: I have an external DVD burner that lets me transfer a bunch of computer videos onto disk. It comes in handy for watching Jdramas.



V: I have a job. A real job that requires college degrees and special licenses. I don't make much money though, so any future brides cannot be whores.



VV: I own a Yaris. Hopefully the same dumb chicks that think SVs are cool will not notice how cheap I am.



X: I own a pair of black leather jeans. They're a motorcycle type of jeans, but they almost got me a callback for the part of the biker guy in a 70's boy band.



Twelvely: I have a ton of DVDs. I have US, Japan, Hong Kong, and Korean releases. I also have the player to play them.



Thirteenish: I have Love Actually and Flash Gordon on VHS.



One Million Dollars: I own a dress. It was for Halloween, I swear. I've never used it to go to the nightclub on a Friday night in order to try and pick up guys so drunk they would have sex with anything. Promise.



12345: I also have a kung fu outfit. My secret kung fu identity is Sum Dum Gai.



3.14159: I have a trumpet. I don't mean to blow my own horn, but I used to be pretty not bad with it in high school. But back then, I was still cute enough to get girlfriends, and I didn't need a trumpet. Or a list. Stupid list.



24/7: I have scars. Not just the wonderful acne scars to remind me of my bad skin, but also battle scars. I have a scar from a gash I received while playing sword fighting when I was a kid. I also have scars on my elbows because I suck at riding bikes. There's also a big one on my knee from a tumor I once had. Even the tumor couldn't stand to be with me and left.



525,600: Helmet ears. Um. Yeah. Ears.



And that's my list. Impressive, eh?

Now looking over this list, I can see for a fact that those compliments people gave me were nothing but lies. Nothing on this list will get me some play except for the broadband. Chicks dig high download speeds. I think I will sue my so-called "friends," for infamation of character. Like that? I made that up. Instead of maliciously destroying my reputation, they've been maliciously trying to bolster it. Those jerks.

Sigh. I hate athealth.com. The list thing really backfired. I'm not feeling much self esteemed at the moment.

You know what? Screw the list. Screw possessions. I will win the heart of a lady with my charm and good looks. Any women interested? Here's my pic:

Blonde Abbegirl of Our Dreams

A friend of mine said, "you should write a blog about why I like blondes."

Yeah. Like I'm going to write something special for him, a guy. If he was more androgynous, then maybe I would consider it. Then again, I don't think he would make a good looking girl. He would probably be worse as a transsexual.

So I was going to forget the whole idea when I realized that I did write blogs for other people before. Plus, I would get to mention Abbegirl once again.

So why do we like blondes?



I'm going to take a guess at my friend's reasoning. He signed a waiver allowing me full control over his written opinions. I've learned my lesson from a previous blog.

I'm betting that he likes blondes because the local girls around here drive him nuts. He's been teased, dicked, and played by many a local girl. He's had his heart broken and toyed with. However, he seems to look back fondly on his previous blonde girlfriends. I guess to him, previous experience shows that blonde girls treat him well.



I forgot that some of you reading this may actually be haole. The original meaning of haole was foreigner. Over the years it has changed and it now refers to Caucasians. (how-lay)

The local girls would be your non-haole. Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Filipino, Portuguese, Hawaiian, Polynesian would be races considered local.



After listening to my friend, and mentally going over what I know, I think he has a point about liking blondes. What I see at work, with my friends, and in the community are the low standards of the local girls. All they want is a nice piece of man-ass. Doesn't matter if the guy is as dumb as a pile of rocks. If he got a bod, they want him.

Right now the two or three local girls who read this gibberish will start to feel indignant. Doesn't matter though. I meet about a hundred new girls each year. The vast majority follow the same pattern. They all want the hot guy even if he couldn't reason his way out of a paper bag. It doesn't change. Argue all you want. The facts remain the same.



So I think my friend might actually be smart for once. Instead of going for the girls who will just toy with us and dick us over, perhaps we should be looking for someone outside of this established norm. We should be looking at the haole girls. Hey, maybe one of those pretty blonde girls would actually give a troll like me a chance.



I'm sure one of them would. When I'm taking a rest break on my motorcycle, I watch the tourist. I see fat guys, ugly guys, guys with no character, guys who dress like corpses, guys who smell bad, guys with no tact, stupid guys, all with beautiful blonde girls. WTF? You know those girls are actually looking at the soul of the man when they pick their mates, unlike the local girls who look at the schlong.



In comes Abbegirl. Abbegirl is a very popular contributor to YouTube. I saw her in one of Minouye's videos and I told my friend about her. Since then she has become our new "pinup girl." She's pretty, bright, talented, humorous, and a major firecracker. Of course it could be just her onscreen persona, but we'll take it.





Awesome, eh?

I was kind of hoping to make funny videos like that, but my attempt went over like a lead balloon. Let's just say that from now on, certain things will be off limits on my blog.



So yeah. I guess we like blondes because they simply KICK ASS!

The Band Teacher's Back and I'm Gonna Be In Trouble

Hey la, hey la, the Band Teacher's back.



The Band Teacher is back. For those not in the know, let me try to explain just who the Band Teacher is.

The Band Teacher taught at our school for a couple of years before she went back to college. She's actually pretty talented, and comparing her students to other students, it turns out she was a really, really good teacher.

She also works out a lot. Her stomach is flat like a slice of sashimi. That helps to accentuate her boobs. I'm also willing to bet you can bounce quarters off her ass.



One day I helped the Band Teacher change the oil in her car. As a reward, and good mistresses reward lowly slaves, she treated me to McDonalds. I think I had Chicken Selects.



A student of ours just happened to be in the same fast food establishment. That was "patient zero." If you haven't worked at a school filled with preteen girls, you haven't seen a real grapevine in action. The rumor mill was in full swing.



The next day, the whole school was talking about how someone saw me kissing the Band Teacher. The grapevine is fast. Faster than an SR71. However, it's about as accurate as a SCUD.



Sounds like fun times, right? WRONG!

I'm guessing the Band Teacher enjoys talking to me. She calls me now and then just to chat. However, she tends to have a low bullshit tolerance. If I start to go into my usual, lovable, misogynistic self, I get the "look."



I can't make comments about how women are the anti-Christ no matter how sound my reasoning is. I have to watch what I say. I can't be too rude or crude, which sucks. If I try to smell someones burp, I would be in the doghouse. The other crappy part is that I can't flirt with her. She has like a lvl 6 Protection from Lechers spell or something.

I visited her one Saturday and I guess I must have said something funny because I got kicked... hard.



It didn't hurt. I only cried for like 4 minutes and the doctor said the bruise would heal.

I also can't tease other people when she's around. The crazy lady seems to identify with two legged mammals with permanent mammary glands. I have been left to bleed behind a dumpster after commenting on the temperature after studying a boobometer. I got off easy. Heaven knows what would have happened if I tried to determine if it measured in Celsius or liters.

Jugs.



So now that she's back, she'll probably want to hang out. I'm too scared to say no. Perhaps I can modify my personal space shields into something more tangible like barbwire.



Of course, if she reads this, I am as good as dead. So, my dear readers, all three of you, if the blogs stop, start dredging the rivers. You'll eventually find my mangled corpse rotting with a smile because I would most likely get off one joke before I swing.