I Rode Her Hard and Put Her Away Wet

Well, as you can tell from the headline, I'm spending more quality time with the jailbait I like to call Ashley. She's such a hot redhead, and her and I got some dirty looks today. Man I rode her hard, and she kept wanting more. Eventually she wore me out (my back is sore as fuck). Now she's all hot (and wet), and I have to just let her sit until I'm ready to ride her some more. Hopefully no one else wants to kick her tires.

I knew today would be a long day, and I wanted to really give it to her (she had just been bathed and got all lubed up), so I took a couple little blue pills. I thought they'd help me keep up. Now I'm so sore, I might have to pop a Vicodin just to recover from the day. She's so young and frisky, I don't think she's even phased by it all. I likely will wake up and want to rider her hard, so I should get some rest.

I dunno if it's legal for a guy like me to take a gal like her across state lines, as I dunno what they'd do to me in jail here in Georgia. Time to rest and recuperate.

Me and my little firends

It has come to my attention that it appears that I have a fixation with midgets. I've blogged about midgets, gimps, and even Oompa Loompas. Star Wars is my favorite movie franchise (jawas and ewoks), and I watched both Different Strokes and Webster in my formative years. I even met one of the munchkins from the Wizard of Oz and worked in pet shops that sold dwarf hamsters. Heck, I used to eat Dunkin Donuts' Munchkins before I discovered the Timbit. Mini pretzels somehow taste better than the real thing, and I drive a compact car. So what's the deal? Am I some kind of weirdo? Well I must be, and in a quest for self improvement, I've thought quite a bit about the topic, and I've came up with this:

dildos, butt plugs, anal beads, blow up dolls, pocket pussies, double dongs, and vibrators

Once upon a time, I was seeking ways to make an extra buck (OK, I'm always seeking ways to make an extra buck), and I began daydreaming of different strategies to make a buck. I already was fixing PCs via my Rent a Nerd business, which did well enough, but I wanted to see what else I could come up with. A bunch of crazy-ass ideas entered my head, and I even ventured to mention a few to friends, which garnered more than a few laughs and odd looks. Undeterred, I kept the dream alive, and one day I was cruising in my pimpmobile, and the idea came to me.

Nookieway! Yes, a whole new galaxy of sexual toys and novelties (novelty is an interesting concept, which is mostly a ploy to avoid the usual FTC regulation of other devices). Anyway, I had more than a passing familiarity with the industry from my ex, and I had the necessary web skillz to pull it off. I didn't exactly want to deal with wholesalers or have an apartment full of dildos, butt plugs, anal beads, blow up dolls, pocket pussies, double dongs, vibrators, and other stuff I'd rather not mention, nor was the notion of returns that palatable, so I needed to find a better solution. I bought the domain name, set up my own web server, started on graphics, and did some research. In time I found a company which would work kinda like Tupperware or Mary Kay, just much cooler and all online. I'd find customers, they'd get their shit from this third party, and I'd get my cut (25f gross). The site looked custom, but the backend was shared with thousands of other fine merchants of smut.

At first it was slow, as few folks new of the site, and fewer still ordered. In time I had links (not many sites want to exchange links with a dildo mart), mostly on Hentai sites (an odd synergy of dorks and hornballs). Visitors picked up so did buyers (mostly dykes in Vermont). I got a few checks, and it ran its course from crazy idea to relatively unsuccessful business/interesting story to tell to people. I still own the store, but the domain lapsed and lord knows who owns it now.

Once I was at a gathering of Nationwiders after work (nothing work related--it was at a sports bar for Christ's sake), and one of the associates' wife had heard about my business. She had all sorts of questions (either her or hubby wanted a butt plug), and we talked for a bit, while hubby was wasted. He sorta came to when I gave her a card, and he was pissed (hehe, I know who likes the butt plug). Anyway, nothing happed, as no one really wants to fight a big ass pimp like me. Still a funny story.

Well, no more sex toy store, but I'm a pimp, and I still have my hoes. I'd write about them, but new privacy laws and shit makes it hard to do. Back in the day a pimp never had to think of HR issues and shit. Heck, I can't even fire that crippled ho of mine due to the restrictions imposed with the Americans with Disabilities Act. What's sad is that she's my top earner. Shit, I've already wrote too much. I should be getting a call from my attorney.

The Coming Menace

I've been working for my employer (I'd rather not say who, but if I were writing a rap about them Haitian pride might mentioned near the name of my employer for rhyming reasons) for quite a while, and besides people getting laid off, hours getting slashed, and benefits shrinking, I've never had any reason to fear for my job. I've been working in my current office building with a nice view of a field of concrete ears of corn (like a hundred 8 feet tall ears of concrete corn--no shit!) for almost three years. The whole time I wondered why half the urinals are those kiddy sized ones that are just above the ground. I know the water can be quite cold here in Ohio, but come on, not everyone has the same issues I do. A few possible conclusions have passed my mind, but now I have the answer, and it can be quite scary.

Oompa Lumpas! Yes, you read that correctly. In this era of outsourcing people view hard working well educated folks in India as the threat, but they are a red herring to divert attention from the menace of indentured anthropomorphic midgets who are insourced (is that a word--hmmm, I'll have to check with Secret). Anyway, that is the only conclusion I can draw, and it's scary. Doing some math it seems that if half the urinals are for midgets, then half of the employees will soon be Oompa Loompas. I don't know how else to prepare for the onslaught besides to learn to speak Oompa Loompish and eat lots of chocolate (if the demand for chocolate rises, the demand for Oompa Loompa-labor will as well, thus negating the benefits of hiring the little fellas). For now, I'm focusing on the latter.



Don't get me wrong, I love diversity, as long as I keep my job.

**Update** It has come to my attention that there is a group looking out for the plight of abused and overworked Oompa Loompas! People for the Ethical Treatment of Oompa Loompas! PETOL

RIP Big Tim

Me and my crew from work sometimes make ventures away from the big city of Dublin out to the sleepy burbs like Powell for a relaxing lunch at a fine dining establishment named for where people purchase petrol. These excursions usually revolve around the daily food specials which range from $.25 wings to a surprisingly good sub. Coincidentally the wait staff tends to be female, and well sometimes female plus silicone (sorry Ryan, those aren't real, otherwise the nipples wouldn't point sideways when she leaves the cooler). Our misadventures tend to take a tad more than the allotted 45 minutes for lunch, and we usually are the only one's not drinking. On special days like yesterday, we can even watch fine blue collared folks take a trip out to the truck to smoke those homemade cigarettes, which are so popular among tradesmen (I pity the folks who's house will be painted that afternoon), before returning to more beer and Jaeger (nothing quite gets you ready for an afternoon like a spliff and some Jaeger--oh, yeah the beer is good to help you paint too).

What's sad is while we were there we found out that Big Tim had died. The waitress wasn't quite grief stricken, as there are three (3!) Big Tims, and she wasn't sure which of the regulars named Big Tim it was. Now I haven't died anytime in this lifetime, but I'd like to think that the loved ones in my life would have better people to contact than my favorite watering hole (I don't even have a favorite watering hole--should I have one listed in my will?). How often do you have to go to a place where it reaches that level of significance in your life? I don't even think my place of employment needs to know right away (WTF, are they gonna fire me?). Anyway, between the three Big Tims and the urgency of notifying the waitstaff of the situation (did Big Tim eat that much that the cooks would need to cook less or drink that much that a beer truck could be called off?) it was rather absurd. I never knew any of the Tims, but I do miss the guy who looked like Bernie from Weekend at Bernie's and his sidekick Smeagol (his precious). They haven't been there in a while, and I should get to working on some posters.

Nora Louise Kuzma

Once upon a time, in my more rebellious days, I was on the UF academic team, and my nerdy homeboys (sadly not so many homegirls on the team, maybe another story for another day) let me down. We host an annual (well we always talked about making it semi-annual) high school tournament to raise moolah for our travels. We had some university funding, but we weren't exactly the football team, so we needed to supplement it if we wanted to live the pimp life. The tournament would be open to any public high school that didn't seem to be weird based on their name (no alternative schools, prison schools, schools for handicapped, or anything that seemed like added work--don't sue me, sue someone else). The rounds had 25 toss up questions and about 20 or so bonus questions. We promised something like 16-18 rounds, and at the end we sold the packs of questions for even more money. In years past some nitwits were lazy and used old questions over again to disastrous results (as I high school student I ruined that practice because my excellent memory spotted old questions and I answered way too many of them way too soon). So we needed to write 720-810 questions, and we each were given a .. of packs to write (making a big-ass question bank wasn't feasible at the time). I volunteered to write 90 , which was more than my share.

As time went on, the procrastination of others became outright laziness, and the excuses piled in. We were headed towards a disastrous scenario. I kinda inherited the shit duty of not only writing my 90 or so questions, but also the slack that needed to be addressed. I ended up writing 225 questions, and well there was a slight change in the quality of the questions. I always pushed the limits to begin with, and when you add stress, frustration, and lack of sleep, I ended up writing some gems for questions, which caused some issues.

Geography questions became name the country from liquor/beer produced there. Literature questions involved Tarrantino films--or worse. Science questions involved weapons. History questions involved lunatics, serial killers, celebrity sex scandals, and bizarre trivia. Math questions included a few too many drug references. Out of the blue I added some porn star trivia. There also were quite a few questions on cults, the occult, and anything that might provoke people. It was quite the hodge podge, and the funny thing is that the average score of my packs of questions was through the roof. The kids knew significantly more of my questions than anyone elses. I think every match had someone know Traci Lords birth name or enough of her porn film names to answer the question nice and quick.

I underestimated the parental grief, and since my packs were the only ones printed and done, they were like 5 of the first 6 packs read. At the end of the first night of competition, parents, including those from christian jr high schools (we don't invite private schools or junior highs, so they can smoke my pole), got pissed. I honestly think they were more pissed that their innocent kids knew all the shit they did. I had to see a dean and be counseled on my rebel behavior. The dean came out and said that they were extra hard on me because I was such an influential "alpha nerd". They quantified this status (which I can't argue with, as I was the alpha nerd) by saying I had a girlfriend, and others looked up to me because of that. It was all so sad but true, though I was shocked that they came out and said it.

In the end, I weathered the storm and became a legend. Kids would make copies of the packs of questions, and treasure them like a Mickey Mantle rookie card or something. Some would come up to be and speak to me with odd reverence (this was before I was ordained), and a few asked for autographs. It actually became sad. In the end, the whole affair marked an end of an era, and I no longer had free reign to write questions all on my own (I also never was screwed writing all the questions).

Viva la Mexico or something

It's that time of year again, where Mexicans such as myself can stand proud, and share in our wonderful heritage and culture. Places like Flannigans, which until as recently as St Patty's Day was an Irish establishment must have fallen into new ownership, as now its a Mexican place. Places like Bob's bar, which became O' Bob's Bar, likely will become El Bob's bar, another indication of the rising influence of vibrant Mexican-American population here in Columbus. I can't wait to celebrate, and there is a pinata with my name on it, and I'm ready to beat the shit out of it.

Why do we celebrate Cinco de Mayo on May 5th? Well Cinco de Mayo means May fifth dumbass! Why not May 4th? Well that's Quattro de Mayo--it's just not the same. See on 5 May 1862 some badass Mexicans kicked French ass. No one ever beats the French in war, ever, and us Mexicans busted open a can of whoopass. Our secret weapon? Cows--no shit (well, where there's cows, there's shit, but you know what I mean). Carnitas or something like that in our lingo (wait is that pork, it's been a while since I've been to Chipotle)--Barbacoa? Shit, oppressive English influences have stifled my ability to speak Mexicish. In the end, we lost anyway, but fuck, we're celebrating Cinco de Mayo, who's the winner now bitch? If it weren't for the brave heroes of Cinco de Mayo (yeah the cows), there would be no Cheech and Chong, no Taco Bell, and no Three Amigos. God bless Mexico and viva la Mexico, and whatever. I'm Mexican and you're not, so get over it. I'll go to Flannigans and El Bobs to celebrate with my peeps, and they'll all be Mexican.

You know who you are

A shout out to the fat lazy slobs who can't shop without those motorized carts, get the fuck out of my way. I'm not trying to be insensitive, and if you really have a disability that isn't being a lazy fat fuck, well then you can read another one of my blogs instead, but if not, let me shop in peace. I've never been mistaken for an Abercrombie model, and I've been a big dude my whole life, but I never was too fat to shop. If you are too fat to shop, well then maybe you should get off your ass and walk a little it won't kill you, and if it does, well then my problem's solved. Insensitive, yeah, but try getting your feet run over by a beached whale hundreds of mines from the shore--it sucks. Oh, and don't expect any sympathy with the packs of hot dogs, bacon, and Pepsi in your basket. I'll be glad to point you to some carrots or broccoli.

Think you own the aisle on your bad-ass Lark scooter, well wait until I unplug your battery and you need to get off your lazy ass and either fix it or waddle out of the store. Yeah I'm a jackass, but I'm not a lazy one, so I don't give a fuck. Now if someone is truly disabled, wouldn't they have their own scooter, and wouldn't they need it everywhere, not just the store? Doesn't it seem fishy (oh btw, fish might also be healthier than those pork rinds, so mix some in every now and then) that stores cater to these cows? Well its shouldn't, as they are loyal customers, zipping around to find their high-markup processed foods (mmmm yum!). What's next, a special parking decal for fat people? Why don't you just go to the feed store and get you some mad cow chow, and leave me alone. I used to pity folks like you, now I just hate you. Where can I find a Calvin pissing on a fat fuck riding a scooter? Off to the flea market I guess.

I'm not bitter, I promise.

I Need Help!!!

Part of getting to know someone when things are getting serious is meeting their friends, their family, and most importantly their kids. Recently I've been a very lucky fella and met someone very special, who has really changed my life for the better. So far things have gone real well, and she's met my kids, and they seem to like her. One of my twins is retarded (the other is a flirt), but they seem to be alright with her. I wish the retard would talk, then it would be easier, but I guess I'm "insensitive" for being so demanding--whatever, I'm not the 'tard.

I'm not worried much about the family thing, as I think both sets of parents should be delighted that we are so happy, and they live hundreds (or in her case thousands) of miles away, so there is little that could go wrong anyway. That brings me to the current dilemma, one I'm seeking counsel on. What do to about my gimp?

I've had the little fella now for a few years, picking him up in a back room booth at the Swap Shop in Ft Naughtydale. He was the runt of the litter, and quite the needy fella. I've fed and whipped him for years, and we've bonded quite a bit (actually more bondage than bonding). She kinda knows I have a gimp, and she seems cool to the idea. How does one break the ice? Do I just invite her over and have the gimp running around and playing? Do I have him let himself out while her and I are sharing a moment, or do I just wait until she finds out my best man is a little dude in way too much leather? I take our relationship seriously, and I would never do anything to upset the gimp. This is all such a dilemma, and I should have thought about it sooner. What should I do?

My Brush with Death

Once upon a time, actually 1/1/1999, I was down in Ft Naughtydale with my ex (wasn't my ex then, but you get the picture), and we were kinda itching to do something. The night before was New Years Eve, and being that everywhere was 21 that night we just stayed in and watched the boats go by. She called her peeps, and for whatever reason we decided to go down to Coconut Grove. We were running a tad late, but its a late night town, and it was all good. My ex's ex (and well I since found out she was still fucking him--thus part of why she's my ex) was with us, along with his new homosexual love interest (I'm the only guy she dated who hasn't since sucked cock--doesn't that say something that every other guy would rather suck cock than stay with her), and my exes cracked out friend. The five of us were in my old hoopty; it was very wet out; it was after midnight; and the roads were empty.

The drive from Ft Naughtydale to Miami can be tedious with traffic, but without it, the number of lanes really makes it a breeze. We were zooming down to Miami at approximately 100mph (my speedometer stopped at 70, but it was almost at "E" on the gas gauge). Things went well until we got into Miami. Coconut Grove is down by Coral Gables (like that means shit to you guys, but let's just say it's pretty far down into Miami), so we still had a bit to go. At this point we were still going quite fast, and this big red Dodge pickup truck was approaching, but given that there were about seven (yes 7) lanes of traffic going our direction and there never was more than one (yes 1) car we were passing, anyone could get around us. Well anyone by Bubba Roadpizza (folks need names, so sometimes I got to make them up). Mr Roadpizza started to ride my ass like Bert on Ernie, and it was getting old. I just pulled over, as he was not driving so well anyway, and I'd rather let him by. As he passed, he pumped his fist, shouted some nice remarks about my mom (she says hi btw), and we couldn't help be be frightened by the incredible amount of anger in his eyes. It was a large truck, and it had huge toolboxes and a welding rig in back. There were also a few coolers.

Like most tailgating assholes, Bubba didn't really pull away, so it seemed kinda pointless. We were approaching the flyover, so we stayed in the left lane, while he was a bit ahead toward the right. Flyover? Well in South Florida they have HOV (carpool) lanes, which is pretty common, but in some stretches of town there are flyovers, or one lane bridges that take a direct route through some curvy patches and also pretty much guarantee there is no cop hiding in a speed trap. They also provide an awesome view of Miami at 12:30AM or so. Given the direct route and seemingly unenforceable speed limit, it's no surprise that Bubba wanted to cross over a few lanes to catch the flyover. What was surprising is how retarded he was, as he did it way too late (perhaps for dramatic effect or just slow thinking) and lost control. The exit for the flyover has a 30 foot steel barricade parting the lanes before the concrete wall takes over. Mr Roadpizza managed to hit it, dislodge it, and bisect his truck into the cab/frame and bed sections. He also earned his name by being ejected from his car. This all occurred right in front of me while going 100mph on wet roads in a fully loaded Olds Cutlass.

I was fucked.

I tried slowing as best I could, but my breaks were locking and the car was starting to fishtail. Everything was in slow motion, but there was still next to no time to react. The exit itself likely was 16 feet or so wide, but with the two parts of the truck and guard rail occupying most of the area (some was still moving), there was not any room. On top of it all, the shit was staggered, so there was no straight route. Oh, btw, the gas tank had exploaded.

We were fucked.

Everyone was screaming, I tried to skid my car, still going 80 or so through it all, left and right to pass through the shit (and avoid Bubba's lifeless corpse). The car skidded up the ramp about a 1/4 mile, and it left behind some neat skid marks. The guys in the car flung open the car doors and started saying things like "fuck" and the gals just cried and held hands. There were beer and Dr Pepper cans everywhere on the ramp, as the cooler flew out of the back of the truck and up the ramp. Crown Royal bottles were there too. I went to check on Bubba (the gas tank already exploded, so what could go wrong?) Acetylene! That could go wrong. Let me say, that shit is hot. Like hotter than fuck hot. His tanks blew on the way towards him, and I lost all desire to check on him after that. After a few moments, to incredibly happy homosexuals approached with in a jeep. They quickly hit it off with the likeminded folks in my ride (they were oblivious to the still burning carnage and dead dude. Before long a TV news helicopter was overhead, and the dudes from the Jeep started throwing cans at the helicopter. Notice, I have yet to mention one thing--pigs! There were none!

A truck had split in two, blew up twice, knocked out power to I95 for a few miles ahead, and managed to draw the attention of a news helicopter. No pigs. A second news helicopter showed up (knowing the insanely competitive South Florida news operations, I kinda kept an eye on them to see if one would shoot the other down. The police finally showed up, but they didn't want any witness accounts, names, or anything. I guess they just concluded he was a drunk. I had some bits of glass in my tires (no punctures) and I'd late find out that the fire made some of the dirt and salt on my car impossible to remove thereafter. We went down to Coconut Grove, drank some coffee, and tried to unwind. The four gay guys obliviously giggled and became fast friends. It was a long night, and I'll never forget it. It was rather crazy.

Just Like Home!

This morning I was cruising on 270 while keeping an eye out for my groundhog peeps, and Ashley was being frisky as ever (she's gonna get me in trouble someday--I just bailed her ass out last week). I was kinda tied behind someone obviously running late on her Sunday drive. Before long some dude in a Bimmer was riding my ass. At that point me and my girl were hopelessly trapped in an asshole sandwich. Drat! Well not wanting to get my girl angry, I darted over a bit to some free space and the dude behind me (I'll call him Wang-Chung because most dickheads in my life get cute nicknames, but I'm not racist--I have Asian friends) followed, then he started branching out in other lanes. As a matter of course, me being the driver further along, I could pick the openings in traffic, and he could either follow or pick a less desirable course. He tried both, and evidently became pissed, as once traffic opened up, I let him move on (I'm just not that into competitive driving en route to a job I can show up whenever the fuck I'd like to, besides, we were almost at the Dublin speed trap). In the process he was weaving erratically and really seemed all cracked out (maybe that extra shot of espresso wasn't necessary for him this morning). Well the Wanger wasn't content with getting ahead, and he started rolling down his window, sticking his head out, turning around facing me, pumping his fist and spitting. He wasn't so talented, as he almost lost control of his car in the process. I laughed and blew him a kiss (after all, I knew I'd get the last word in my Myspace blog!). Actually, I also knew the last guy who pumped his fist at me like that became anthropomorphic road pizza on I95 (I'm really a nice guy who attracts assholes on the highway and karma gets them in the end--kinda like snitches in prison). Soon Wang Chung started cabbage patching and egging me on. He'd try to wave me ahead, and Ashley was getting pissed (she is a firey redhead after all). Despite my listing to RATM, I was more or less chilled and thought the better of that one, and besides I never speed that fast in Dublin anyway. Well he was getting more pissed, spit a few more times and started to stick his head out of the window again and looking back. He did this for a while, and I think he started to talk about my mother or something. I batted my eyelashes and blew him another kiss. It was my exit, so I just zipped over and made my way into the wonderful Stepford community of Dublin. Oddly enough he always signaled (maybe I forgot and that's how I pissed him off). So much drama, but it reminds me of Florida. My first real Ohio road rage incident.

Keep an eye out in the next day or so for the I95 road rage blog from the archives; it involves, rednecks, homosexuals, Crown Royal, helicopters, explosions (yes plural!), and a dead asshole.