Many of you may be surprised when I say this, but I am getting married. I found my wife tonight, but unlike Robert, I only found her perceived in my mind. Congratulations to you Bobby; I can only imagine what it feels like to have your wife personified.
My woman exists in my mind and hopefully in the real world, but I have yet to find her and not send her running as fast as she can in the opposite direction. Let me describe her for you. She:
1. Walks like Carrie Underwood in the "Remind Me" video. sexy walk
2. Has colorful tattoos on her arms/vaginal region/lower abdomen or all of the above.
3. Finds my antics silly and humorous, not creepy.
4. is a total geek, but like in the good kind (like she wants to fuck dressed up like Leia or a stormtrooper but has no interest going to dragon con.
5. makes more money than me, but realizes that I could make soooo much more money if I put my mind to it. In other words, she understands that I'm smart and lazy and am completely satisfied owning a bar and killing evil bitches: but fucking seriously, if I wanted corporate shit type money, it would be fucking mine, along with gold-digging fine cunts. But obviously, I'm posting this because I am looking for something so much more real, duhh.
6. Have perfect genes. Okay, I realize that this is hard to come by nowadays with all the fucking peanut allergies, awesome fake titties (they're cool and all but they do fuck up DNA after a year or two, look it up, science and shit), cell phone brain mutation, "organic" foods (you ever eaten only organic food for a week? your poop should not be that color!), and white people fucking it all up with incest
7. Only wants to cuddle when I'm feeling down.
8. Makes awesome jokes about my cock in her mouth or how well I pleasure her.
9. She must conform to all previous posts including the ridiculous shit I've said about women.
There you go. You all know what I am looking for now, so if you see her, fucking let me know! Or at least if you see me with her and I'm fucking it all sideways, help me out, but don't steal my fucking thunder, unless you are a chick and are down with a threesome. Oh yah,
10. Must be down for a threesome (with another chick, but maybe with another dude because it's okay if it's in a three-way!)
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Math for Men
Men have been plagued by one simple question over the ages; should or shouldn't I hook up with this chick? Well lucky for the men of the modern age, I have taken a concept from Barney Stinson and made it into a faultless way of answering that question.
The normal decision of whether or not to plug a woman's hole with your trouser snake can be made by utilizing this simple graph.
Those of you who remember middle school math may recognize this as a simple y = x + 7 graph. The y axis here represents the hotness of a chick on the normal 1-10 scale. The x axis represents how crazy a chick appears to be on a scale of 0 being completely sane to 3 being totally bat-shit crazy. To determine whether or not you should sleep/date a chick, you should plot her coordinates on this graph. If she is on or above the line, go ahead buddy! If she is below the line, you'll be sorry, in one way or another. Now if she is below the line, please understand that I am not telling you to not sleep with her, I am simply warning you that regret or unhappiness is sure to follow.
Now depending on you condition, the graph can be altered. We all know that being drunk radically alters your perception of a girl's attractiveness, point proven in my case. In these circumstances, it is necessary to get assistance from your friends in determining her 1-10 hotness value. Also being drunk will alter your graph to the following:
Notice here that y = x + 4.5. This is because if you hook up with a girl that is a 4.5 or 5, you can still always use the excuse that you were wasted, and still get your dick wet.
Another situation where you may need a different graph is where you are sure that you can hook up with a chick and never see her again. This may be the case if you are headed to her place in her car, and she never gets your real number. If that is so, use this graph:
Notice here, she can be as crazy as it gets, as long as she is a 6 or better. Be careful though, crazy chicks have man-hunting skills that even the federal government does not have. You may have to live in a cave in the Appalachians for a few years to avoid baby mama drama or female plagues on a biblical scale. You have been warned.
In addition to these three basic charts, there are several factors that can move a broad around on the graphs. I have listed some, but it is up to the individual man to come up with his own factors based on his preferences.
-having a star wars tattoo +1.5 hotness
-saying shit like "my dad never + 2 crazy, +1.5 hotness
danced with me like that!"
-willing to get it on in public + 1 crazy, + 2 hotness
-farting + 1.5 crazy, - 2 hotness
-telling you she has kids - 1 hotness
-telling you she has kids (drunk) + 1 hotness
Please print out these graphs, and bring them and a pencil wherever you go.
Totally unrelated, but I need votes on my next tattoo.
1. A bad ass Beer (bear snarling with antlers)
2. Darth Vader holding a lightsaber hilt, and the lightsaber blade is done in black-light ink
3. Bad ass Celtic eagle thingy that I'm gonna draw up
4. Unicorn with a rainbow
The Darth Vader thing is trademarked by me, so you better not use it or I will kick your ass after I sue you for all you have.
The normal decision of whether or not to plug a woman's hole with your trouser snake can be made by utilizing this simple graph.
Those of you who remember middle school math may recognize this as a simple y = x + 7 graph. The y axis here represents the hotness of a chick on the normal 1-10 scale. The x axis represents how crazy a chick appears to be on a scale of 0 being completely sane to 3 being totally bat-shit crazy. To determine whether or not you should sleep/date a chick, you should plot her coordinates on this graph. If she is on or above the line, go ahead buddy! If she is below the line, you'll be sorry, in one way or another. Now if she is below the line, please understand that I am not telling you to not sleep with her, I am simply warning you that regret or unhappiness is sure to follow.
Now depending on you condition, the graph can be altered. We all know that being drunk radically alters your perception of a girl's attractiveness, point proven in my case. In these circumstances, it is necessary to get assistance from your friends in determining her 1-10 hotness value. Also being drunk will alter your graph to the following:
Notice here that y = x + 4.5. This is because if you hook up with a girl that is a 4.5 or 5, you can still always use the excuse that you were wasted, and still get your dick wet.
Another situation where you may need a different graph is where you are sure that you can hook up with a chick and never see her again. This may be the case if you are headed to her place in her car, and she never gets your real number. If that is so, use this graph:
Notice here, she can be as crazy as it gets, as long as she is a 6 or better. Be careful though, crazy chicks have man-hunting skills that even the federal government does not have. You may have to live in a cave in the Appalachians for a few years to avoid baby mama drama or female plagues on a biblical scale. You have been warned.
In addition to these three basic charts, there are several factors that can move a broad around on the graphs. I have listed some, but it is up to the individual man to come up with his own factors based on his preferences.
-having a star wars tattoo +1.5 hotness
-saying shit like "my dad never + 2 crazy, +1.5 hotness
danced with me like that!"
-willing to get it on in public + 1 crazy, + 2 hotness
-farting + 1.5 crazy, - 2 hotness
-telling you she has kids - 1 hotness
-telling you she has kids (drunk) + 1 hotness
Please print out these graphs, and bring them and a pencil wherever you go.
Totally unrelated, but I need votes on my next tattoo.
1. A bad ass Beer (bear snarling with antlers)
2. Darth Vader holding a lightsaber hilt, and the lightsaber blade is done in black-light ink
3. Bad ass Celtic eagle thingy that I'm gonna draw up
4. Unicorn with a rainbow
The Darth Vader thing is trademarked by me, so you better not use it or I will kick your ass after I sue you for all you have.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Story of My Life
To begin, I must apologize for not being drunk when writing this post. I am however loopy from being bored out of my mind and not getting my 14 hours of daily beauty rest for the past couple of weeks.
To understand my story, it is important to know where I came from. I derive from a long line of Irish immortals, popularly know as the "Uplanders." A couple of my notable ancestors are Fox Mcloud, and William Wallface, who fought the British to free the British from the terrible oppression of the British. We all know that story, and sadly Wallface was executed by the British for being British. You may ask yourself, how was he executed if he was immortal? Well stupid, a few generations before William, my family lost it's immortality because the gods did not appreciate having their sacrifices pooped on. Who knew? Anyways, not being immortal is not so bad, every day is more precious and all that shit, plus my legend will live on forever.
It all started one fateful day when my green eclipse with a paint job done by a retard topped out at only 140. Shit! I got Harry to hook me up with a couple of the big bottles of NOS, and I was off to the races. After standing beside my car for a few hours in a California racing alley and being called extremely racist terms like snowman, I met the big dog. His name was Ben Gasoline, and I had to throw up my pink slip to get in a race with him. He won, but I almost had him! He then schooled me by saying something about inches and miles, but winning is winning. I had to give up the car, and right at that moment, the cops busted up the party. I was instantly recognized because of my many arrest warrants out for being a fucking ninja.
I was sentenced to 459,682 consecutive life sentences for my crimes, but I soon was presented with an opportunity to clear my name. The government had detected a large alien fleet headed our way by using their fancy radar and listening to REM. They needed my help. I was to take an advanced pilot training course, and lead the attack on the extraterrestrial foes. I reluctantly agreed, and started training in the course commonly know as Top Gun. My instructor was some broad name Kelly McAverage. I know, a chick instructing an elite group of badasses sounds far fetched, but trust me, all this happened. Oh yeah, Kelly and I totally got it on to 80's music because she was turned on by my risk taking style of charisma. My attitude did not go along well with everybody, however, and it was not until graduation when my nemesis, Hal Killmenow, finally accepted me as his wingman.
The attack had been planned and we were ready to launch. The government had acquired an enemy vessel that crashed into the World Trade Center in 2001 (alien terrorists were also involved in case you don't read the news). I was to infiltrate the alien mothership, and plant a virus in its control systems to kill all those slimy fuckers. Myself, that guy from Jurassic Park and The Fly, and about 300 Spartans from the HALO games flew up to the mothership, but we crashed soon after entry. A warm breeze rolled in and made me jizz in my pants, sorry guys. We all emerged from the wreckage unharmed to see 9 billion alien warriors ready to attack. We quickly bolted for the nearest narrow canyon to defend ourselves (in case you didn't know, the inside of alien motherships looks like the landscape of ancient Greece). After weeks of sexy, slow-motion battle, enough blood and goo was shed to fill the oceans three times over. Only myself and the alien leader, Herpes, remained.
Herpes was an elite alien warrior, as he possessed a laser cannon on his shoulder, invisibility powers, and heat vision. To counter his sight advantage, I covered myself in mud. Whilst he was adjusting to not being able to see me, I constructed a trap made of hundreds of alien dicks (they're fucking sharp!). I then lured Herpes into the trap by running around and screaming, "kill me, I'm here!" in an Austrian accent. The trap worked and Herpes died a horrible death by being sodomized by his own kind many times over. I managed to find the alien control center, and located the self-destruct button (I guess a big red button really is universal for self-destruct, stupid aliens). Narrowly escaping the craft in an escape pod, I had saved the galaxy from sure destruction.
Expecting to return a hero, I was dismayed to find only two weak-minded government agents waiting at my landing sight. Like idiots, they explained the governments plan to me. I was to be killed, and all traces of the incident were to be covered up. Luckily, I knew a few Jedi mind tricks, and told the agents that I was not the droids they were looking for. I made my way to the airport at Las Eisley, where I found a renegade, smuggling pilot named Juan Solo. Juan, his first mate, Masticatie, and I became great friends blowing up Death Stars and fighting over my sister.
Nowadays, we run around murdering government agents because God told us to. Masticatie used to be a package boy for many of the agents, so he knows where they live and who they're fucking! Very advantageous. There is one FBI agent who is getting close to us. It shouldn't be a problem though, because he is a fan of our cause, and he is usually to busy screwing faggy asian dudes to actually catch us.
What lies next in my great adventure is still a mystery... Maybe one day, I will command a starship and defeat the evil race of Formulans and Dingdongs, or save the world from zombies and robots who want to use humans as batteries. Whatever may lie on the horizon, on thing surely is true, I'm fucking awesome!
To understand my story, it is important to know where I came from. I derive from a long line of Irish immortals, popularly know as the "Uplanders." A couple of my notable ancestors are Fox Mcloud, and William Wallface, who fought the British to free the British from the terrible oppression of the British. We all know that story, and sadly Wallface was executed by the British for being British. You may ask yourself, how was he executed if he was immortal? Well stupid, a few generations before William, my family lost it's immortality because the gods did not appreciate having their sacrifices pooped on. Who knew? Anyways, not being immortal is not so bad, every day is more precious and all that shit, plus my legend will live on forever.
It all started one fateful day when my green eclipse with a paint job done by a retard topped out at only 140. Shit! I got Harry to hook me up with a couple of the big bottles of NOS, and I was off to the races. After standing beside my car for a few hours in a California racing alley and being called extremely racist terms like snowman, I met the big dog. His name was Ben Gasoline, and I had to throw up my pink slip to get in a race with him. He won, but I almost had him! He then schooled me by saying something about inches and miles, but winning is winning. I had to give up the car, and right at that moment, the cops busted up the party. I was instantly recognized because of my many arrest warrants out for being a fucking ninja.
I was sentenced to 459,682 consecutive life sentences for my crimes, but I soon was presented with an opportunity to clear my name. The government had detected a large alien fleet headed our way by using their fancy radar and listening to REM. They needed my help. I was to take an advanced pilot training course, and lead the attack on the extraterrestrial foes. I reluctantly agreed, and started training in the course commonly know as Top Gun. My instructor was some broad name Kelly McAverage. I know, a chick instructing an elite group of badasses sounds far fetched, but trust me, all this happened. Oh yeah, Kelly and I totally got it on to 80's music because she was turned on by my risk taking style of charisma. My attitude did not go along well with everybody, however, and it was not until graduation when my nemesis, Hal Killmenow, finally accepted me as his wingman.
The attack had been planned and we were ready to launch. The government had acquired an enemy vessel that crashed into the World Trade Center in 2001 (alien terrorists were also involved in case you don't read the news). I was to infiltrate the alien mothership, and plant a virus in its control systems to kill all those slimy fuckers. Myself, that guy from Jurassic Park and The Fly, and about 300 Spartans from the HALO games flew up to the mothership, but we crashed soon after entry. A warm breeze rolled in and made me jizz in my pants, sorry guys. We all emerged from the wreckage unharmed to see 9 billion alien warriors ready to attack. We quickly bolted for the nearest narrow canyon to defend ourselves (in case you didn't know, the inside of alien motherships looks like the landscape of ancient Greece). After weeks of sexy, slow-motion battle, enough blood and goo was shed to fill the oceans three times over. Only myself and the alien leader, Herpes, remained.
Herpes was an elite alien warrior, as he possessed a laser cannon on his shoulder, invisibility powers, and heat vision. To counter his sight advantage, I covered myself in mud. Whilst he was adjusting to not being able to see me, I constructed a trap made of hundreds of alien dicks (they're fucking sharp!). I then lured Herpes into the trap by running around and screaming, "kill me, I'm here!" in an Austrian accent. The trap worked and Herpes died a horrible death by being sodomized by his own kind many times over. I managed to find the alien control center, and located the self-destruct button (I guess a big red button really is universal for self-destruct, stupid aliens). Narrowly escaping the craft in an escape pod, I had saved the galaxy from sure destruction.
Expecting to return a hero, I was dismayed to find only two weak-minded government agents waiting at my landing sight. Like idiots, they explained the governments plan to me. I was to be killed, and all traces of the incident were to be covered up. Luckily, I knew a few Jedi mind tricks, and told the agents that I was not the droids they were looking for. I made my way to the airport at Las Eisley, where I found a renegade, smuggling pilot named Juan Solo. Juan, his first mate, Masticatie, and I became great friends blowing up Death Stars and fighting over my sister.
Nowadays, we run around murdering government agents because God told us to. Masticatie used to be a package boy for many of the agents, so he knows where they live and who they're fucking! Very advantageous. There is one FBI agent who is getting close to us. It shouldn't be a problem though, because he is a fan of our cause, and he is usually to busy screwing faggy asian dudes to actually catch us.
What lies next in my great adventure is still a mystery... Maybe one day, I will command a starship and defeat the evil race of Formulans and Dingdongs, or save the world from zombies and robots who want to use humans as batteries. Whatever may lie on the horizon, on thing surely is true, I'm fucking awesome!
Friday, March 30, 2012
High School Comparisons
To those of you who may have met me in only the past few years, this may be a surprise to you. In high school, I was that almost nameless guy with close to zero confidence, who just slept in class and did jack shit else. The funny part is, I got shitty grades in english class because I had not yet realized my awesome potential of being a clever, witty, super bomb-ass ladies man. (laugh all you want dick hats, I rule, and write like a fucking genius!)
The point of this post is, if I could do it all over again, I would truly learn the lessons taught to us by Saved by the Bell, and rock that shit. If I had to do it all over again, for lack of an even more extreme character, I would be Zach Morris. He obviously was the alpha male of the show, yet he also had a genuine caring side that made him so likable to everybody (like me!). His defining characteristic, besides his haircut and good looks, was pure confidence. His level of confidence, without generic asshole cockiness, is what totally landed him the ideal high school relationship; an on and off again with the hottest cheerleader in town, Kelly Kapowski (although she turned out to be a semi-fatty as show in White Collar.)
Now my confidence level has grown exponentially over the past few years because of several reasons. I now know that I am a sexy piece of man meat, I joined the fucking Marines, and I now know that there is no one or nothing that can hold me back from getting what I desire. Even as this confidence was still slowly developing, say 4 years ago, I had high school girls drooling over my sexy ass; and yes my ass is very sexy, especially naked. Nowadays, if I was attracted to girls over the age of 14, the local high schools would be in fucking trouble!
The point of all this rambling tipsy bullshit is, if you are a man and you want something, fucking take it! If you live by that motto, the whole world is fucking yours. You may say that Kevin, you are an average guy who hasn't taken shit for cock, so what the fuck are you talking about? Well to that I would say, 1. Fuck you, and 2. My morality and standards prevent me from having everything I desire. I will post on this as soon as I learn how to get rid of this damn conscience.
I know I set out to compare and contrast myself now and whatever the fuck I was in high school, and it turned out to be a bunch of rambling bullhonky. Shit happens. If you don't like it, then don't buy my book when it never comes out because I don't have that much patience.
I should write a fucking book. Topics for this project would be appreciated in the comments, go!
The point of this post is, if I could do it all over again, I would truly learn the lessons taught to us by Saved by the Bell, and rock that shit. If I had to do it all over again, for lack of an even more extreme character, I would be Zach Morris. He obviously was the alpha male of the show, yet he also had a genuine caring side that made him so likable to everybody (like me!). His defining characteristic, besides his haircut and good looks, was pure confidence. His level of confidence, without generic asshole cockiness, is what totally landed him the ideal high school relationship; an on and off again with the hottest cheerleader in town, Kelly Kapowski (although she turned out to be a semi-fatty as show in White Collar.)
Now my confidence level has grown exponentially over the past few years because of several reasons. I now know that I am a sexy piece of man meat, I joined the fucking Marines, and I now know that there is no one or nothing that can hold me back from getting what I desire. Even as this confidence was still slowly developing, say 4 years ago, I had high school girls drooling over my sexy ass; and yes my ass is very sexy, especially naked. Nowadays, if I was attracted to girls over the age of 14, the local high schools would be in fucking trouble!
The point of all this rambling tipsy bullshit is, if you are a man and you want something, fucking take it! If you live by that motto, the whole world is fucking yours. You may say that Kevin, you are an average guy who hasn't taken shit for cock, so what the fuck are you talking about? Well to that I would say, 1. Fuck you, and 2. My morality and standards prevent me from having everything I desire. I will post on this as soon as I learn how to get rid of this damn conscience.
I know I set out to compare and contrast myself now and whatever the fuck I was in high school, and it turned out to be a bunch of rambling bullhonky. Shit happens. If you don't like it, then don't buy my book when it never comes out because I don't have that much patience.
I should write a fucking book. Topics for this project would be appreciated in the comments, go!
Friday, March 23, 2012
Time Travel
By time travel, I do not mean installing a flux capacitor on my Delorean. I actually am talking about that amazing phenomenon that happens when you drink too much whiskey. Now some of you naysayers may say, "Kevin, drinking that much is bad for you." I would agree if my liver didn't happen to be a fucking trooper. Since it is, fuck you in the nicest way possible.
The best way to define my kind of time traveling would be to define it as the skipping of memories and partial recognition of events that occurred in a night of binge drinking. A sane person may think of this as a bad thing, but then again, who the fuck listens to a sane person. Time traveling is truly an art. It gives you the ability to remember the good parts of a night, and subconsciously ignore the bad parts. It also makes you feel like you are a part of CSI the next morning.
For example: You may remember pulling your pants down at a club. You then ask yourself, "why would I do such a thing?" You then deduce that you must have been talking to a very hot chick with tattoos on her boobies who wanted to see if your penis was as big as you were bragging. You then realize that you were probably increasing your penis size by 400% by saying that it was 8 inches, so you instead decided to just show her the "brain." This in turn must have been the cause of the slight memory you have of a woman running away in terror and amusement.
That would seem to infer that the semen stain on your pants came from simple masturbation with tears as lubricant from the embarrassing events that occurred at the club. But wait! We forgot about the long red hair that was stuck in your zipper! Logically, there must have been some slutty redhead that was amused by your being rejected. She must have felt pity on you, and have given you an awesome and regret-filled bj. Case closed. Either that or your dick tried to strangle itself with a tiny piece of red rope. No, we're going with the one where a girl actually touched your wiener.
Now tell me that deciding to drink what society would call "too much" was a bad idea. How else would you get the satisfaction of thinking you got semi-laid and solving a fucking mystery? The way I see it, I got two choices y'all; pull over the car, or bounce on the double put the pedal to the floor. Now I ain't tryin' to see no hollywood chase with Jake, so I choose the road less traveled and decide that we got fucking laid last night!
In conclusion, if you feel me, throw your damn hands up. Word to your mother, and good will towards men (not women).
The best way to define my kind of time traveling would be to define it as the skipping of memories and partial recognition of events that occurred in a night of binge drinking. A sane person may think of this as a bad thing, but then again, who the fuck listens to a sane person. Time traveling is truly an art. It gives you the ability to remember the good parts of a night, and subconsciously ignore the bad parts. It also makes you feel like you are a part of CSI the next morning.
For example: You may remember pulling your pants down at a club. You then ask yourself, "why would I do such a thing?" You then deduce that you must have been talking to a very hot chick with tattoos on her boobies who wanted to see if your penis was as big as you were bragging. You then realize that you were probably increasing your penis size by 400% by saying that it was 8 inches, so you instead decided to just show her the "brain." This in turn must have been the cause of the slight memory you have of a woman running away in terror and amusement.
That would seem to infer that the semen stain on your pants came from simple masturbation with tears as lubricant from the embarrassing events that occurred at the club. But wait! We forgot about the long red hair that was stuck in your zipper! Logically, there must have been some slutty redhead that was amused by your being rejected. She must have felt pity on you, and have given you an awesome and regret-filled bj. Case closed. Either that or your dick tried to strangle itself with a tiny piece of red rope. No, we're going with the one where a girl actually touched your wiener.
Now tell me that deciding to drink what society would call "too much" was a bad idea. How else would you get the satisfaction of thinking you got semi-laid and solving a fucking mystery? The way I see it, I got two choices y'all; pull over the car, or bounce on the double put the pedal to the floor. Now I ain't tryin' to see no hollywood chase with Jake, so I choose the road less traveled and decide that we got fucking laid last night!
In conclusion, if you feel me, throw your damn hands up. Word to your mother, and good will towards men (not women).
Friday, February 17, 2012
lets fucking do it
So, I have the name of this blog as tits and tats 69, let's fucking write something deserving of that title.
As Anberlin would say, I'm too old to know, too young to care. Eversincehence, this blog may not make sense but it comes straight from the heart. I'll be fucking honest. I am looking for someone; someone who makes my heart race and my dick hard at the same time. Let me describe this woman for you. She has at least C-cup tits, a rock-and-roll personality, tattoos in naughty places, and a vagine ready for the plundering, by me, of course.
Now I know that men have their sort of "periods," but this is not what I'm talking about. It is true that sometimes nerds like the cool ass faggots in bYd can whoop that ass of the semi-popular kids in FFZ in all competitions except midget fighting, but later in life we all are the same. This sameness creates a brotherhood that can only be rivaled by alcohol, drugs, or common decency. In other words, we are all the same. If you cannot understand this, then fuck you bitch, because you are not a person with feelings.
I know this may intercede one of my older posts, but feelings and relationships of any kind from fucking high school sometimes do mean shit. I love all you fuckers I had any type of emotional response towards in high school, except you fucking nameless douchebag who will never read this. (BTW if you are that nameless douchebag, then yes, I did fuck your mother while your father watched via security cam two weeks later.) The point of this blog is, all of you who have touched my life, I fucking love you; from the so called "loser" who has nothing better to do than read this, to the hot ass babe who wastes her precious time reading this shiza, I love you all. Thank you for being a part of my life, and I wish you all the best in life, kinda like how I will marry the hottest woman alive and have pulitzer, acadamy, and grammy award winning fucked up children. Peace out bitches!!!!
Sunday, January 1, 2012
This is how we do ittttttttt................
This one goes out to the tweeting peeps who will not let my phone stop ringing...
There are many different ways to define "game." Therefore, this post will be about actions and sayings that show absolutely no "game."
1. Leaving a bar/club before the smooth lines you planted into a girl's cerebrum have had time to develop into a beautiful flower, which you then proceed to fuck.
2. Saying shit like, "although you are rocking it, that girl isn't that hot." If you are sober enough to form that kind of opinion, you do not rate a fucking opinion. Fact.
3. Anyone who does not fist pump and jump up and down to a recognizable song with a bad ass beat. ie. bon jovi, project pat, john mayer, or the backsteet boys
4. Sometimes chicks are all over your ass, and the music is loud, but you still must bust out a crazy loud fart in order to see which chick is really down with the shit you plan on doing to her later on in the evening. Yes, she may get pink eye, but she is going to have so many orgasms in the process.
5. I know this makes no goddamn sense with the rest of the post, but what the hell happened to cougars? A couple years ago they were ripe for the picking, but now it seems that they all have some stupid ass commitment to a husband or baby's daddy. It's the last fucking new year's that any of is going to see because the fucking world is going to end; fucking fuck some random sexy dude oozing with confidence!!!! Seriously, why the hell is this so much harder than it was a few decades ago? (And oh yeah, I know. In 1986 I was sucking on titties and feeling up vajajays like it was nobody's beeswax.)
6. This blog better be the biggest hashtag on twitter since Kim Kardashian bought her asscheeks on ebay or I will kill a motha fucka. Yes, that means your dad is going down, biatch!
There are many different ways to define "game." Therefore, this post will be about actions and sayings that show absolutely no "game."
1. Leaving a bar/club before the smooth lines you planted into a girl's cerebrum have had time to develop into a beautiful flower, which you then proceed to fuck.
2. Saying shit like, "although you are rocking it, that girl isn't that hot." If you are sober enough to form that kind of opinion, you do not rate a fucking opinion. Fact.
3. Anyone who does not fist pump and jump up and down to a recognizable song with a bad ass beat. ie. bon jovi, project pat, john mayer, or the backsteet boys
4. Sometimes chicks are all over your ass, and the music is loud, but you still must bust out a crazy loud fart in order to see which chick is really down with the shit you plan on doing to her later on in the evening. Yes, she may get pink eye, but she is going to have so many orgasms in the process.
5. I know this makes no goddamn sense with the rest of the post, but what the hell happened to cougars? A couple years ago they were ripe for the picking, but now it seems that they all have some stupid ass commitment to a husband or baby's daddy. It's the last fucking new year's that any of is going to see because the fucking world is going to end; fucking fuck some random sexy dude oozing with confidence!!!! Seriously, why the hell is this so much harder than it was a few decades ago? (And oh yeah, I know. In 1986 I was sucking on titties and feeling up vajajays like it was nobody's beeswax.)
6. This blog better be the biggest hashtag on twitter since Kim Kardashian bought her asscheeks on ebay or I will kill a motha fucka. Yes, that means your dad is going down, biatch!
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