Paid Under The Table

Melissa Theuriau is hottest fucking news anchor of all time...the only problem is that she broadcasts from France.

Her sultry looks are every man's goddamn dream, but would it kill her to smile every once in a while? I'm suspicious as fuck as to what's behind those lips. A nice set of teeth? Jagged chicklets? Pearly whites? Discolored sugar cubes? Razor-like chompers? or maybe just a row of those fucking pointy teeth that are shaped like the center of a seesaw.

I think that news channel should hire yours truly to come and munch her yoohoo under that desk while she delivers the news. While she's on air, I'm on hair. I take pride in my tickle dive, and could probably get her to at least smirk a little, which would be a serious improvement. I could even whisper her lines if she stumbles while reading the prompter. It would be the greatest job of all time. Sometimes men in porn need fluffer's, so that they "get their facts straight". Think of me as a fluffer for an anchor...a flanchor (pronounced- flanker.)

My duties as a flanchor would be simple and direct: Keep Slurping, No Burping. Who doesn't love getting their news by word of mouth...

I'd love to see the look on her male anchor co-host's face as he's pointing out the locations of California wildfires on a map while Melissa bites her lip and clenches her fist blurting out - "Right there. Yes!. Right there!." He gives her a confused-as-fuck-but-the-show-must-go-on-look..."Yes, Melissa, you're right. (Pointing to the map) They are right there, and right here as well, in Encino, and right there in Sherman Oaks too...So tragic." "The Best! (Panting) Yes! The Best!" He looks like he could kill her..."Yes Melissa that's right. You can rest assured the BEST firefighters will be put to the test tonight."

"I've even had a couple close encounters with these fires myself, as I'm sure you have as well. Isn't that right Melissa"

"Oh yes, Multiple....Multiple (sigh...sigh...sigh...)

Then I sprout up and I'm supposed to yell "That's a wrap!"...but I change my line at the last second and opt for the more lovable "That's a flap" (a pussy flap, of course.)...Everyone loves the joke and erupts in laughter...Except the male anchor, who knocks me the fuck out because he's "sick of this shit" and is wondering "when it's gonna end!"...but we are still rolling...the cameraman films the punch, the douchebag newscaster gets fired, and I take Melissa home and show her my "top story".

Nappy Holidays

I know I should have come out and said this a long time ago, but I think J. Holiday's song, "Put You To Bed", may be about slipping a honey, trick, bitch, shawty, rump shaakah, etc., some non-street legal form of anesthesia and initiating penetration. Thereby making the alleged "boo" the final piece to a J. Holiday/Sandman threesome. Big J may be the one who needs the pillow and a warm glass of milk the most. He looks arguably burnt out, most likely after staying up for nights on end after releasing the "joke" version of the song (that was only meant for his friends) onto public Top 40 radio. What an unfortunate snafu. Someone fucked up bad, and forgot to replace the statutory assault version with the much cleaner, non-forceful coma induced, anal punishment version into the envelope that was sitting in J's "outgoing" mail bin. I hope J's human resources team took action and fired that intern with just cause, because the girl in that song is having an unconscious epiphany: That you CAN be in two places at once - dreamland and creamland. Here's a sample...

And love you till your eyes roll back
I'm tryin to put you to bed, bed, bed
I'mma put you to bed, bed, bed
Then I'ma rock your body
Turn you over
Love is war
I'm your soldier
Touching you like it's our first time
I'mma put you to bed, bed, bed
I'ma put you to bed, bed, bed

[Verse 2:]
I'm staring at you while your sleep
You replaced it for beauty
Put my face up in your neck and breathe (aww, breathe)
Take you into my senses
Wake up, it's time to finish
Round two, It's round two
Matter of fact it's closer to three

She like, "how long I been sleep?"
Shorty, kisses turn into the sweetest dreams
Like give it to me
And I can feel her tell me
My angel this is wonderful
Thanks, for letting me bless ya
Come down, fly, right, drift back into heaven
Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh

Love you til' your eyes roll back? Really J? Most people don't actually fall asleep willfully like that. I've actually never watched someone doze off (which makes me humungously less creepy than you), but I'm also certain that the only time someone's eyes roll in back of their head is when they are being pumped full of hardcore drugs that are frying their brain and turning their retina's into rolodex's. You're a creep dude...And you're extremely tired...Maybe you need a little taste of your own medicine...A Midnight raping/beating from Chris Brown might be just what the doctor ordered. You'll be a little out of sorts the next day, I'm sure...

"What's wrong with you this morning J...What did you wake up on the dong side of the bed again?"

Calf-a-teary-a

Everytime I look down at my legs I want to cry. Not because I don't admire them of course, but because no one else will ever come close to owning two limbs so exquisite, and it disheartens me. They are the epitome of perfection and if you're body really is a temple, as they say, then my calves are two fucking ample, pulsing bags of kosher salt. They are perfect in every facet. They intimidate, antagonize, bewilder, and amaze. I realize that many people may not agree with me, and therefore I may stand alone...On the most glorious pair of stems this hemisphere has ever known.

There was a craze back in the day known as Livestrong bracelets. There is no need to explore the nature of these wristbands, because everyone knows what they are and what they stand for. I am in full support, and actually wear one myself. But I was considering starting another brand. One that is worn on your calf as a WalkStrong movement. Walkstrong is for all those people out there with chicken, bow, scrawny, stumpy, or just fucking ugly legs. Everytime you buy a pair of shorts, you will have the option of donating a dollar to Walkstrong and receiving a rubber bracelet that will be worn around your calf muscle, or lack thereof in comparison to mine. All proceeds will go towards calf implants for the people who are afraid to throw on a pair of swim trunks because their legs look like two fluorescent office lightbulbs on motion sensors (you almost want to wrap them both in that clear, but textured, and slightly opaque plastic box that envelopes the bulbs as they hang overhead and shine down upon miserable employees who are dreaming up ways to burn the motherfucking building down.)

My calves are the only thing that give me confidence. I am devoid of self-esteem in every other aspect of life. You may be saying to yourselves "Well gee, why can't you just find God? He'll help you get back on track?". It's ironic, because my legs are the sole reason I can't even go to church anymore. Kneeling down for prayer, and denying the rest of the population visual access to my sleek beauties is more of an unholy act than not praying at all (there's sinning, and then there's shin-ning, and there is no difference.) So everyone hop on board and WalkStrong bitches. We'll have a grandiose party to kick this worldwide fundraiser off....And we'll all get fucking legless..

Don't even think of trying to get in if you're not on the fucking list...Cuz I'll be at the door bouncing...on the balls of my feet, waiting to sick one of my stack-of-ashtray-sized calves on you like a beaten, bastard, bloodhound with a hatred for douchebags that'll literally make you weak in the knees.

The Penis Brothers

I'd like to "teenie" bop these three freakishly adorable assholes over their overpaid heads with a brand new sledgehammer. Everything about them screams "anal experimentation. I realize that there are several sex "rules" out there in the world today. Steve Stiffler once told us of the zip code rule (how cheating on your girlfriend doesn't count if you are in a different postal code location.) And ladies, If you wake up and can't remember the hardcore hammering you took the night before because of the 15 oatmeal cookie shots you tossed down your throat instead of dinner, then it never actually happened. BUT NO WHERE is the rule stated that having sex with your brother is OKAY, because you're in the same band. Sibling rivalry should be starting over a Nintendo controller or the last slice of bavarian cream pie...NOT over your twin's throbbing dank piece...But seriously guys, congratulations on being the first band in history who would rather play each other's instruments than your own...

Type A-Pathetic

Setting: A popular, skanky, awesomely trashy Hollywood strip joint.

Main Characters: Me and Wire (the hottest stripper of all time, but for some reason has a fucking American Gladiator stage name...I'm pretty sure that if your fucking name is Wire you should be going toe to toe with Venom, Siren, and Wolf in the Eliminator....Whatever happened to the classics like Caramel, Candy, Trixie, Daphne, Dahlia, Angel, Roxanne, Ivy, and Nougat?

Scenario: Wire sidles me, and barely gets through asking me if I would enjoy a dance before I hastily blurt out "What is-meet you in the back room", in true Jeopardy fashion (that's my schtick, get over it, everyone has one, so get off me.) Strippers don't watch TV because it's hard to work the remote while hanging upside down from a semi-sturdy gold pole, so my reference goes flying over her head. One thing leads to another, we start chatting, and she tells me she is a Type A personality. I say "Yea, no shit", apparently like a true bastard, because she gets up and leaves me there reciting the pledge of allegiance to my confused, half masted flagpole. Her exact words, "Fuck you, I'm outta here!"...

Conclusion: Never call yourself a Type A personality if you don't want other people to agree with you...You stupid, rump shaking, sensitive, biiiiatch.

I Never understood the whole Type A thing. People seem to take pride in having these personality traits. Last time I checked, people who were impatient, over eager, highly motivated, self indulgent, aggressive and highly competitive were just a fucking pain the neck (you might be curious as to why I opted for neck instead of ass...try getting hit in both spots and see which one is more of a pain, you dicks.)

"So tell me a little bit about yourself, John"..."Well sir, I am a real go getter, one of those Type A Personalities...you know"..."John?"..."Yes, sir?"..."Get the fuck out of my sight because you disgust me." That is exactly how every conversation should end after someone reveals this about themselves. But for some fucking reason they love to describe themselves as Type A, and hate the shit out of it when you agree with them. Just like Wire...

They get all hot and bothered when you say "Yea, I can see that." If you don't want me to agree then don't put it out there on the fucking table. I don't go start shitting out phrases like "I'm a real Type B personality, I just sit on my fucking carcass all day and pull my pud until it's sore. Then I fix myself a daunting bowl of apple jacks, and verbally beg my clock to fast forward itself to 5:30 because I can't wait another nano-second for Fresh Prince to start. BECAUSE I don't want people to agree with the fact that I'm a lazy piece of dogshit with less drive than a slashed tire. (I actually don't even know what personality type I really am. You really can't classify yourself one way or the other because sometimes people are A and sometimes people are B.)

In Wire's case, she has to be Type A at work. If you're a stripper and you sit there with your hands under your ass, picking your nose and scratching your baby door through your baggy sweatpants, you're gonna make shit for money. But I can't imagine her going home and continuing to play the part. I don't think she gets in the bath tub and makes her kids come in and slip her singles under her shower cap while she Sham Wow's her snatch with a Louffa (the single greatest word/sponge of all time...fact...If you wash up with a Louffa, then you should hop out of the shower, dry your hands off, throw on your slippers, and light up a smoke, because CONGRATULATIONS, you just had sex with yourself...fact.) My point is that you can't be one way or the other all the time. I'm lazy as shit but if a shark is swimming after me, I'm not going to half heartedly tread water, throw a thumb in my ass, and amuse myself by throwing a patch of seaweed over my head and quipping "Look everybody, I'm Bon Fucking Jovi!"...

I didn't say anything wrong, Wire...You just got all heated under the g-string and stormed off...just like a Type A bitchcunt would. Lucky for you, I'm so Type B that I couldn't give five fucks...I should've have made you take a shower with me...and had you scrub me down with my favorite sponge, while I pretended to care less...a stripper's worst nightmare - an uninterested, indifferent, Type B piece of shit, a.k.a. ME.

Wire: You don't even seem excited...Do you want me to change the water setting to Stream instead of Jet? Woops, I just dropped the soapy sponge.

Me: I don't really care...Now that's "aloof huh?"...

Wire: Real cute.

Me: Fuck I just cut myself with the razor by accident, I'm losing blood at an alarming rate. I might need a transfusion. You're Type A right?

Wire: Fuck you, I'm outta here!...

You can't win...

Flying V...

Who likes girls dancing in cages?

Cops don't like them because it reminds of them of the midnight cornhole rapists and pistol wielding sidewalk scum that they are trying to scrape off the streets and throw behind bars.

Lion tamers don't like them because it reminds them of their four legged, feline co-star being chained up on a big old sea vessel and transported from Africa to the circus, where Barnum and Bailey could make sure he's up to their standards by sticking their heads in his mouth and then forcing him into a ferocious threeway. (B and B are so gay...that they should open up a B and B)

Wrestlers don't like them because it brings them back to that no holds barred, career ending cage match that left them penniless, loveless, and without a spleen. Cage matches are notoriously the harshest forums for professional grapplers, and afterwards the loser is...never...quite...the...same...

I'll tell you who loves these pent up queef dealers...THIS GUY...as in, ME. They have the nerve to get in a caged confinement and start shaking their goodies for the betterment and sheer entertainment of the dirtbags who are actually watching. The reason, I think, that I'm so enamored is because I did not have a bird when I was younger. All my friends had birds in elaborate cages and lined the floors with newspapers. They filled little Petey's goblet with the freshest water and saltiest crackers. I was jealous...and angry. I've heard of people not being dog or cat people...but who the fuck flute is allergic to birds? I've never seen any one have to break out an epi-pen while feeding the ducks. You want what you can't have in life, and a BIRDCAGE was my desire. Instead of owning an actual one, I ended up watching the movie, which almost turned me queer. Dodged a bullet...and a couple ballsacks...

A black girl was in a cage last night at the bar I was at, and in a playful, sexual tone yelled "Paulie want a cracker!", right in my direction. Being of fair skinned Irish soda bread complexion I naturally assumed she wanted me to hop in the cage and ruffle her feathers. Mixed signals. I was immediately thrown out. FUCK! You see mom! I had no experience with this. If I had had a bird when I was younger I would've known better and simply fed her what she wanted all along: a buttery tollhouse right out of my palm...But instead I pissed the poor cockatoo right the fuck off, got tossed to the curb, and went back to my lust nest solo, with bird* in hand.

*one's own penis

Such a Thing as Too Good?

No matter what your age, there is something about arcades that just sucks you right-the-fuck in, every time you walk by. The lights are bright and the energy level is through the goddamn roof. Girls. Boys. Moms. Dads. Mistresses. Everyone enjoys a good video game funhouse. Pac-man, is a classic. Galaga is one of the best games of all time. Skeeball is my personal favorite. But there is one motherfucking game that continues to consistently blow, even after defying all odds by withstanding the test of time. The man who invented this game had to have been the most bored, unoriginal fuck ever born. He was most likely in a bad place in his life, and after having "dropped the ball" with his relationship, he found himself "bouncing off the walls" somewhere between heartbreak and suicide. He had only one silver pellet of dignity left in his body and it led him to create an alleged "good time" machine, which turned out to be a bigger snooze-cruise than sex with Christopher Reeves.

PINBALL is the name of the game. It is downright hell. There is no fun involved whatsoever. I'd rather give Ricki Lake a rim job. I'd rather stick both thumbs in a dough eyed fawn's asshole, get caught in the act by her daddy deerest, and get my hands stomped on by his sharp, unforgiving hooves as my punishment to make sure I never dipped my digits in bambi's gravy boat ever again. People stand over the pinball machine holding it like they are about to butt fuck it. They slam the sides with the utmost force, and let out battle cry bitch fits every time their ball slips through their "hands" and into the abyss below.

What really gets to me is the way the young kids gather around the above average pinball players and gawk at their useless abilities. The players even get girls who are melting right by their side, and as the douchebag's score climbs, so does the girl's vaginal temperature. Are girls really banging these arcade anal warts? I suppose talent is talent, no matter how lame it may be. I just can't imagine these groupie's bedroom banter - "Insert two tokens baby, oh yeah, oh yeah, you're still three credits shy, YES, YES, press start for player 2 to join!!"

I just get pissed when I'm over at skeeball, racking up greek God-like numbers and no one is acknowledging my being. I am demonstrating 10 times the skill that the pinball prick is, but due to the timelessness of that game, my accomplishments go unnoticed. I guess I just feel neglected. One of these days I'm gonna have to gather the nerve to go up to these busty onlookers and simply inquire "Excuse me. What exactly do you see in him?" The only answer that will satisfy my curiosity..."It has nothing to do with pinball, honey. You are just too good at Skeeball. You must play every day, and I just can't date a man who is that good at anything...it's intimidating. You're the best...I don't even know you and I can barely handle it...What would happen if we actually got together. I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you. It's scary how much I'm falling in love with you, even I as speak."

It's a gift and a curse...But one that I can live with...

I'm Fucked

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Whhhat Up Cuz?

Do you want a baby that looks like a fucking anteater? No, you don't...Why would you? So, don't hook up with your fucking cousin! Unless you want a child with eleven noses and and an ear that looks like a cupped hand that descended over a lady bug, trapping it for good luck, and is now slowly lifting itself to reveal it's catch: Nature's biggest pussy.

You may be asking yourself why I am so adamant in my attempt to get you to squash any impure thoughts about flogging cousin Fannie. Well, my friends, that is because I am now a cautionary tale...

The other night, my cousin Judy and I were hanging out playing some video games and I caught her glancing at me like she wanted to climb the family tree and shake down a couple coconuts. She is my step-cousin, and there is no blood relation, but even still, you can imagine my surprise. I was fucking high as a kite because we just smoked a Hilton- Hotels- fresh- towel- sized joint, and I had no idea how to react. Do I make a move? Do I pretend like I don't see her? Do I hang myself with my shoelaces for not immediately dismissing the sexual possibilities? I was a lost man. The way she was eyeing me was the same way that a freaky middle school chick stares at inanimate classroom objects in order to move them with her mind (knocking an apple off the teacher's desk from the the back of the room) to prove to her peers that she has powers. I wasn't even sure if Judy was staring at me. I thought she was just trying to tidy up a bit by moving the vase and the stack of papers behind me off the table. Incest is definitely not best...I don't know what it is to be exact.

Then it hit me...I CANNOT HOOKUP WITH HER...Plain and simple. The baby (God forbid) would end up looking like a fucking dustbuster with a clef lip and a face that you could play the bagpipes on, (I almost went old school and said "Great Scot" outloud when the image popped into my head). I was also afraid that if I liked it, I wouldn't be able to stop. I have an addictive personality by nature and this conversation right here is one I never want to have:

Some Dipshit (pointing to a girl he knew I banged): Dude, that's gross isn't she your first cousin?

Me: No, she's actually lucky number seven...

So the next time you catch your cuz looking at you like she wants to smear toothpaste on your skin flute and brush her "family fucking" fangs.....ahhh what the hell...Incest is Crest

Fifty-Fifty...A Man's Guide to Getting a Fair Share

Loose Woman 1: Can I steal some mascara from you?
Loose Woman 2: Absolutely not honey, this mah shit. Get ya own.
Loose Woman 1: Do you think I could borrow your car to run a quick errand?
Loose Woman 2: Shit girl, you must be crazy, you know I don't lend that shit out. Take your needy ass to the bus station.
Loose Woman 1: Can I please...
Loose Woman 2: NO!
Loose Woman 1: ....Help you slurp on that jumbo chocolate dong that's resting on your forehead.
Loose Woman 2: Of course baby!! Why didn't you say so? Here, I'll move over. There's enough room on this pillow for four knees.

Girls hate sharing, plain and simple. They come off all sweet and innocent but when it comes to their territory they will kill a bitch before lending it out. I mean, just the other day I was waiting on two ladies and asked them if they would care for dessert at the end of their meal. One girl looked at her friend and whispered "Do you want to split the chocolate cake?" To which her blob friend replied, in a super cunty tone, "No...I want my own." And sure enough the heffer got her own cake, licked her plate clean and scampered off into the moonlight (it was 1:30 in the afternoon, but the flawless Lunar eclipse that her two ton tum tum created when she walked outside had us all fooled.) They simply do not enjoy splitting anything down the middle...unless it's hard, veiny, and attached to a scrotum.

I've seen girls fight over everything. Leggings, makeup, jello, shoes, shirts, skirts, candy, 3-D doritos, prune juice, but never a gentleman's penis. In every single porno threesome ever created, the two girls share that shit like a couple of knob hobbing Ghandi's. They help each other out, pass the dingaling off to one another like an Olympic torch, and always share the Gold like an awestruck, humble figure skating tandem. And while one is gliding around blowing kisses to the crowd and collecting single roses off the ice, the other is licking up the slack and finishing the important job that they started. They work as an unstoppable team, like a pack of sled dogs mushing through the Alaskan Yukon.

There are alot of men out there, including myself, who have never had a threesome, and probably never will. Fear may, or may not have something to do with this, but most of you are astronomically more prepared for this situation than you think. If you are a teacher, a dad, or work with kids in any way at all, then you are fully armed with the skills necessary to properly conduct yourself during a menage-a-tois. This sounds filthy, but hear me out. If you fall into any of these categories, then encouraging a healthy amount of sharing is black inked into your job description. You want your kids to share their toys, and your students to share their pencils, erasers, and snacks. That's why whenever you see porn with a dude engaged in a hot beej from two chicks, he is most likely an underpaid 4th grade educator and knows exactly what to say if the girls start getting greedy (this is the reason porn directors have the male star play a teacher during their scene, not out of kinkiness, but familiarity with the role). Phrases like "Let you're friend have a turn", "Uh,uh, uh, play nice girls", "No fighting, there's enough to go around" and, "Wait til' your mother finds out about this" are interchangeable between 3-ways and solving schoolyard/household dilemmas.

For this reason, and this reason alone I can say with the utmost confidence that I WILL NEVER encourage sharing, caring, teamwork, or the lending of a helping hand with any of my daughters. "Dad, Donna won't share her barbies with me!", "Good, get used to it! I don't want to see you two sharing anything...EVER...you got that!...now go play in separate corners." The second I encourage anything but selfishness, they will be out tag teaming poles at all hours of the night, and I just can't run a household like that. Girls see a hog and immediately set all their differences aside. If two girls win the lottery on the same ticket, and the payout is $40,000 a year over the next 10 years, they will take their 20 G's a piece and head their separate ways. Conversely, if the payout is a 60 inch ox cock, then they will take their earnings in one "lump" sum and move in together for an amicable life of blowjobbery.

You can't stop a cockfight with a cat...but you sure as fuck CAN stop a cat fight with a cock.

I-C-U-P....But You Can't See Me

Spying is a lost art, and I submit that I would like to single handedly bring it back...without anyone noticing of course. If you're living your life right then espionage is part of your daily routine. Not to mention, it is easily the coolest thing a human being can do. I like to consider myself constantly in "spy mode", otherwise known as "on the muh'fuckin' lookout", and I am fully available to extend my services to anyone who needs a good double crossing, fake newspaper reading, bucket hat wearing, shrub hiding, sneaky ass bastard.

There are so many things that people do to spy on, and that's what makes it one of the most exhilarating art forms in the world. Sure, you can have fun as a government spy for the C.I.A. or spying on your potentially carpet crunching wife when you suspect that she's finger bangin' her japanese manicurist before the nail polish is even dry, but I'm more concerned with the mundane. I enjoy spying when people least expect it. Spying on people who aren't even doing anything wrong is fuck loads more fun than doing it to someone who knows they are probably being watched because they are committing heinous acts.

A spy's paradise has really got to be a gas station. If you stake yourself out at any given pump and wait for someone you know to arrive and fill up, you're giving yourself a great opportunity to pull off an epic sneak attack. They pull up, fill up and peel out and you've watched their every move. You see them later on that day..."Hey Jimbo, $47.96 for a full tank this afternoon huh? That's interesting...Not to mention, you used pump #6...Hmmm...Well, have a good one." You've taken the harmless act of fuel injection and turned it into a crime simply by playing detective. Jimbo now second guesses the righteousness of his fill-up and you've earned yourself a spot among the ranks of great spies everywhere. All it takes is one time...He will look over his shoulder for the rest of his life whenever he hits the Shell station. He will be a true headcase. "Alright!, I know you're watching me...Where the fuck are you! Come out and face me like a man!" But I won't come out. I'll remain hidden in the black squeegee fluid box breathing through a straw with a stern grimace on my face, going through hell and back to keep my anonymity, like any reputable informer would.

The flipside of this really sucks though. Whenever someone tells me "Dude, I saw you walking out of CVS the other day. I tried to say hello, but you didn't see me". This is not true. They did not try to say hello. They were spying, whether they admit it or not. Whenever someone hits me with this conversation opener I get a little uneasy because I start scurrying around in my brain trying to remember if I was doing anything embarrassing when I was seen. What was in my hands? Did I have skittles? ladies deodorant? flavored condoms? a nose trimmer? ex-lax? my cock? someone else's? And now I am officially in Jimbo's position...freaked out and racked with guilt.

So next time you see me walking out of the video store with two black plastic bags, just keep it to yourself...New text message?...From Jimbo?: "$60.00 for movie rentals huh? Last time I checked there was only one genre of flick that cost $10 bucks a pop...Have fun in your special chair."

Cock Block....Buster