August 27, 2008

Any one who knows me would tell you im not a particularly picky person. Sure, I’d drive my fist up your ass if you tried to deep throat me in public, but I’m rather passive when it comes to things that bother me. there isn’t a whole lot that gets me my nose. however, there are a few things that contentiously force my hairs to bristle.

The first is tragically common, and I’ll admit, I’ve done it; telephone conversations on the toilet. I was laying in my bed one night when my boyfriend called. Where I had been perfectly content to lay there and pass out a moment before, I suddently had the urge to touch myself (that boy’s voice is so damn sexy when he’s tired).

“what’d you do today, baby?” I asked, my figer slowly sliding in and out.

“played some football with the guys, ate some food. it was good.”

“Em, what are you doing now?” in response, he flushed the toilet. And I hung up the phone, disturbed. Later he described in vivid detail how big his dumb had been.

Another time, I was in a target bathroom, doing my thing, when the elderly woman next to me answered her phone.

“oh, hello there, Ethle…well don’t chea know…em-hum, Rodger will be bringing the ludifisk…of course you can bring a hot dish!…oh, yea, green bean casserol’s is delightful, its my favorite, don’t chea know….why don’t we two and the other girls (I snorted at this) get together for some scrap booking! That would be absolutely wonderful….okey there, I need to be going now…okey, dear.”

And that is when she ripped ass.

I walked out of my stall twitching, trying not to think of ancient ass hole passing digested ludifisck and green bean hot dish.

Unfortunately, I am a very graphic individual, who thinks more than they should, and sees more than I can process. So the first time I saw a biking enthusiast, I was down right flustered. What the fuck was that full grown man doing in his grand mama’s spandex blowers? When I finnaly learned that you could buy those panties with a padded back side, I almost commited myself to the annihilation of the biker race. Surly, something went very, very wrong in our genetics when this became acceptable. 

As differcult as it was fr me to see the unnatural contours of an ass every time I carooze my way down the street in my rusty but trusty Tempo, I am able to restrain creaming them on my bumper.

But it almost impossible for me to accept the hideous monstrocities people place on their feet. one product in particular, is the Crock. You know the things. They are a horrible creation that looks like swiss chess gone very wrong. The first time I saw a little girl wearing a hot pink pair, I almost castrated her parents; they were in no position to reproduce and raise young. When my mother bought me a pair for my birthday, I casterated myself.

Kidding, but I did burn them.

“They are so comfortable!” was the response I got shortly after asking my friend, “why are we together?”

She as wearing yellow pair of Crocks, and in doing so, threw away all the respect I had for her.

“they’re on sale at Macies.” She said, as though to excuse her horrible, horrible mistake in her attempt to be original.

“no shit.” Was my dry response.

Original post by Ling