This is my Rifle, This is my Gun: I use them both for loads of fun.

 Last summer I was in my friend's kitchen prepping something by her sink when she asked me:
"So, how's the girl?"
I thought for a moment and replied:
"Which one?"
"Uh, Julie?"
I thought for another moment:
"Which one?"
"The one you're fucking?"
"Uh," I was smiling at this point, because I realized I was kinda being a "pimp" "Which one?"
She sighed. "The brunette?"
"Which one?"
She just sighed and finished off with a:
"God Damn it, just pop your collar now."

Yes, I was messing around with several women named Julie (or Julia) simultaneously. Some of them even with the same hair color. Remember my first post where I said I'm a walking application of Murphy's law? I'm also a cosmic weird magnet. Listen to me now, believe me later.

Yeah I'm kind of a dick. (or am I?)

 [If I were to meet myself of 5 years past, this would be my past self's face]

Past me does not approve of my sexual shenanigans. Current me does not approve of retroactively becoming a cartoon.

I am a gun owner. I'm comfortable around guns, I have fun shooting them and maintaining them is pretty fun too. I was approached by the owner of a bar I frequent about clearing and maintaining an old German pistol he came across today. I offered to do it for free just for the experience of learning something new. As you probably would be unable to guess from this post, I don't advertise my interest in guns because there are enough people out there who associate firearm ownership with insanity and baby killing. Being associated with insanity and baby killing can seriously hinder your chances at getting your bone on.

Which leads to my next bout of man whoring hilarity. Picture this setting:

You take an attractive girl home. Attractive enough for you to want to fuck her, albeit you have whiskey dick. (I was satisfied with my encounter the next morning, when I had sober dick and went for round two, but that's irrelevant) You're fooling around in your parents house, because you're not retarded with your finances and are saving for your own home instead of pissing away $6500-$10k a year on rent. Okay, fine. Chicks don't really care about where you live so long as they aren't made to feel awkward or slutty about it.

Now things are hot and heavy. She wants it. You want it. She's on top of you. She tells you to get a condom. Your first thought is "FUCK YEAH! Girl on top!" your second thought is "Can I reach my condoms from here without moving?"

For me the answer is "Yes."

 "Yes" is also the answer to another question:

"Can I reach my scary looking, .40 caliber handgun from here?"

Fuck.

[My personal Cock Block, in every way imaginable]

My Brain:"ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck"

Your condoms are in your nightstand drawer. Next to your handgun. Your instinct is to fling open the nightstand drawer to retrieve the condoms. After all you want some awesome chick on top action. (Which is surprisingly not as good as I expected it to be when I was younger) If you fling the drawer open she will see your "fully automatic, heat seeking, cop killing, freedom oppressing, baby murdering machine" The solution?

A minor heart attack. Luckily your heart attack stops all the blood from escaping your brain to engorge your penis long enough for you to realize that your arms are skinny, and the condoms are up front in the drawer while your gun is in the middle. Open the drawer slightly, get those condoms (which were already strategically separated from each other) and close the drawer. Disaster averted.

Now it's time to tear that bitch open (oh the wit with those dual meanings!) and go at it like a rabid dog. Then wake up 4 hours later and do it again. God Yes.

Here's the thing. Despite the initial heart attack, I have NOT LEARNED MY LESSON. Every time I am about to get some girl on top action THIS IS AN ISSUE.
Plus side: The 18 year old went through my drawer. Didn't bat an eye. Still comes back for more.
Down side: One of these days I'm going to get my face clawed off then maced, while in a girl, because I will forget to close the drawer. Then, with my luck, I'll associate the orgasm with the pain and get into S&M.
Possible up side: Maybe I'll be able to hook up with Rihanna.

 

 [Fuck Yeah!]

 Wait, suggestive picture + S&M discussion makes me frightened for my Johnson.

Sadly the remainder of my sex life, other than a few farting incidents (and faux farting incidents) is rather "vanilla." Further discussion of me getting it on will probably not occur here just because, its lack of anything odd would just be me stroking my own ego, which I possibly already stroke more than my dick. Also I doubt anyone would find my ego stroking rather hilarious or entertaining, thus defeating the purpose of this ridiculous blog experiment.

So, Rocketeers! Until next time, I bid you farewell. Go forth and do your utmost to further the cause of Socialism for the Glorious Soviet Union! Or just go get piss drunk and fuck a random. That's cool too.

Number two for one Special

Dear Diary...

Wait, no.

Dear Blog, today...

Wait, no that sucks ass too.

Yo Dawg, I heard you like blog posts, so I....

Wait, that wouldn't even make fucking sense.

 [Technical Difficulties: Please Stand By]

Read: The poster has no fucking clue what he is doing

Okay upon further consideration, lets toss the whole post opening thing. On to my story of the day. My story today is about what I will refer to as "The Poop Fairy." Now I know this sounds like the title of a story that a 3yearold who just learned about the tooth fairy AND how to poop on his own would write, but this is a legitimate story about mysterious deposits of poop and cash that I found under my pillow. By the way, for those of you who are slower, you will notice that my post title has a (questionably amusing) double meaning. See "number two" is the colloquial way of referring to poop, which is an integral part of the story, which is why the title is funny.

Anyway.

For the first time in God knows how long, I entered my room before 4:00am to go to straight to sleep. No drunken sex, no last minute projects. Just me, my bed and sleep. It was going to be glorious. A full four hours of sleep. All for me! There was no alcohol in my system, so I wasn't even going to have crazy ass alcohol dreams. I was set for like one and a half cycles of REM sleep that would let me have boundless energy without the aid of stimulants like energy drinks and cigarettes. For those of you who don't know me, Sleep and I have a like-hate relationship. Being a new man of less than two years, I have come to the conclusion that I can most certainly sleep when I'm dead, as life is awesome and I don't particularly want to waste time doing things such as sleeping.

That being said, I like to indulge myself once in a while, and in years past I was known to sleep for ridiculous amounts of time. (My summer of senior year of high school, I passed out at 6:00am, woke up at 12:00 am, stayed up to watch Conan O' Brien and then went to sleep for another fourteen hours.) So I don't hate sleep because it's unpleasant. I find it quite pleasant. I just find it annoying that it's necessary for things like "functioning properly" and "not keeling over."

Anyway, back to my shitty story. As I prepared to indulge in hedonistic pleasure, I noticed an off smell. An unpleasant smell. Being that I am a male, and my shoes were off, dirty clothes were tossed in a pile and I had neglected to bathe in a full 24 hours, I shrugged it off. Nothing that Fabreze, doing you laundry, washing yourself and some odor eaters can't fix... tomorrow.

So I get naked, as I am want to do when I sleep. And I hop in bed. The smell is more noticable now. More distinct. More like... feces.

"Shit" were my exact words. Followed by "What the fuck?" Apparently I traveled back in time to answer my question before I asked it. I get out of bed, and the smell dissipates. I go back to bed, it gets stronger. Baffled, I look behind my bed. There is a turd there in the corner of my room where my bed meets two walls. There's no way one of my dogs, who is a poop factory, could have gotten it in there. But hey, whatever. Stranger things have happened to me.

A paper towel and a flush of the toilet later I'm even more ready to go to sleep early. I lay back down and...
Yeah, the smell is still there. I push the bed back. Maybe my dog, the uni-pooper decided to leave another surprise down there. There was a major thunderstorm last night and he does get scared. And this wouldn't be the first time he came into my room, pooped and left, so whatever.

Well there's no poop behind the bed, but the smell is still coming. In frustration I lift up my pillow and...
Poop. A big, sort of dry, stinky turd. My dog pooped... under my pillow. I don't know how he moved my bed to get behind it with turd number one, nor do I know how he dropped a deuce under my pillow, but props to him.

But wait! There's more. For only 12 easy payments of a pint of blood and a pound of flesh you can hear the rest of my regaling tale! As you can well guess, I was not about to sleep in my bed, which has been bombed by the uni-pooper. Twice. Instead, I slept in my guest room, vowing to clean my bedsheets tomorrow.

After returning home from an "interesting" day at work, I removed the pillow covers and sheets to wash them and -- A wild $10.00 bill appears! Right under my pillow.

All I can say is "What the Fuck?" (As if that's abnormal for me anymore.) The only rational conclusion to be made is that The Poop Fairy is grossly under appreciated and is paying top dollar for dog turds.

Stay tuned for my next post, entitled "Paid to Poop!"

Ha! Ha! I'm using the internet!

At the behest of some of my close friends, I have decided to create a "blog." On my own I find these things as an excuse to indulge in excessive narcissism, but my friends (or maybe my own subconscious narcissism) have convinced me that I might be able to entertain other human beings with my drunk, arrogant debauchery and constant exercise of Murphy's law.

In the coming (whatever unit of time is most efficient for expressing how long it takes me before I get bored with this project) I will regale you with stories from my life and my personal observations there in. I am colloquial, offensive, and honest. I am not the world's next Einstein, Oppenheimer or Whittle, but I am not retarded either. I am just a man who was all too recently a boy trying to carve out his place in the world. I hope you find my life as entertaining as I do.