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!
Friday, March 30, 2012
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).
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