That’s right…she blew me…balls deep, in a test driven car. Seriously, though, she was good enough to get me into a coup and throw a short five with old man river in the “seat of glory” as I red-lined and grinded his fourth gear as I slipped off the clutch and grabbed my cock and shot gobs and gobs of goo onto the dash as I spoke softly into his ear, saying, “this spooge is for you.” Was out with the bridesmaid, driving cars, having a wonderful time, hooking up with three chicks at once. And one was married. Like her husband cares (she can do this awesome lip twisting thing that I made her do then all the other girls wanted to try it too and it was just a giant lip twisting fest and I was the envy of Chipotle and for that one glorious moment, I could understand what the Mexicans behind the counter were saying, because right then and there, I was Robert, and fuck, it was good) or if he does, he isn’t touching her where I can (yeah, I remember where you showed me the spot was).
So work is going to turn into a gigantic clusterfuck here very soon. I can feel it. The problem…I employ a group of fuck-tard slackers who want to be paid more and do less. The solution…mass killings. Each and every one of those bastards from the fucking whore man-less mothers and their fucking excuse fucking kids, the fucking pot smoking coke sniffing junkie fucks, the part-timers who don’t give two shits and wont ever do any extra, the fucking pole smoking cock whore fag rainbow blowing balls deep in his man’s ass and he finger bangs his own ass and he cums a glorious gob in the man’s eye – a bullet to the fucking head, and a few more to their fucking dirty bunny whore crotch. I can already tell tomorrow is going to be a bitch fest. And I’ll be the one that gets to be under the pile of shit. Hell, I’ll be waist deep in the shit with other fucking people throwing shit at me and the smell of shit makes me want to throw up but I don’t want to open my mouth because then I might get shit in my mouth and that would fucking be some bullshit if I had gotten shit in my mouth – that would really piss me off. So I am going to go do what I do best when I get pissed off. I owe myself regardless…I’ve been very very very good…so now I am going to drink myself into oblivion and I’ll wake up only to be pissed that I woke up at all.
People, and thier friends.
The I before E rule.
Fags and their boyfreinds.
Cum sucking dumpster bitches.
Pot smoking government leeches.
Pole smoking prostitutes.
Grapes, and their vines.
You, you miserable fuck, you want me to explain this all to you - Thank you Saunders.
My Job and every fucking cunt who works for me - yeah, I don't give a shit anymore, and somehow because you never! gave a shit I'm supposed to give a fuck now? What planet does that make any damn sense? I'd like to know...so that I'd better be able to take a huge shit on it and forget to flush.
Most importantly, Fuck!
A.L.? Oh yes….oh yes…there was anal…lots, balls deep. Piercings ripping the fragile lining of the anus. The pulling of the hair. The balls resting against the sweaty cheeks. Robert…it makes me want to make bunnies with the bridesmaid all over again. Seriously…my bridesmaid is so fucking hot. Now, if all you tiny-dicked bastards would stop trying to hook us up and live vicariously through my sexual conquests (and it would be a conquest (I’d bring a horse with a huge swollen cock and I’d ride it into her room and I’d dismount and I’d stroke Lightning’s hard-on and then I’d mount her in the horse position and I’d eat oats out of a bag hanging around my neck) like when the fucking British (fucking redcoats) came over and tamed the savage beasts that inhabited North America and gave them all casinos to run instead of just wearing dead animal skin and praying to a thousand different Roberts, we gave them one Robert to pray to and then to take in vain when things don’t go their way but then thank when things do go right for a change)) and just leave us be and let our love develop naturally through time and absolutely zero pressure even and then you will all come to our wedding and there will be the following: naked electric slide, fluffers in the restrooms, a giant cock molded out of reece cups because we all know how my bride loves the cups and how much I love the cock, there will be a reenactment of the final Battle of The Revolutionary War, and I will gut a sacrificial goat and will drink its blood from its uterus and I will bathe the wedding party in the spilt blood and then I will take my sword from its sheath and I will rest the blade on the shoulder of a fucking redcoat and with the force that only Robert could posses when he is pissed at his creations for spreading aids and other formidable sexually transmitted diseases, will I then cut the fucking redcoats head off and then I’ll kiss my bride and I will scalp all the other redcoats like the savages of our past would have done, if they weren’t all off bankrolled and depressed and gambling on an inside straight because they don’t have any other outs and they are being ridiculed for betting it all on just a draw – but it is just a microcosm for life because the lucky get the cards and have the sure bets and don’t miss step along the way, and the rest of us, bedding down and convincing our wives to open their backdoors with whatever reasons we form in our brains (if I say this, then she’ll be convinced) are on the draw, and we lean in over what little we have left as if that will protect it and we don’t want to know what is coming but we are ready to stand up and grab our coat and disappear if we have to.
That is right, bitches, I have got a fUCK pOD being del. and I saved fifty bones so that makes everything more boner-riffic. And I've got the special prime-time shoes so as to better kick your asses come the day to mourn our friend Travis and his passing of his wiener unto the same seaman receiving lady for the rest of his life. Just ask Ron how that all turned out. His wife lives in another state and has no idea he fucks jbc's every night and crys because the mustard stains the sheets.
The return is here...
And if by success I mean two chicks at once, then I fucking mean success. She brought her friend over and asked if it was okay that I was late for work and I thought about it for about a second and decided that I’d break my promise to be a good little boy for the day (I will be going back to my promise starting tomorrow morning) and rearrange their organs for a spell before sending them on their way with a frosted face surprise. But in all reality I blame the bullshit-ness that all began earlier this week with the nonchalant inviting of myself (I) to go out with an old friend (who is not a friend because that fucking bastard never called me, dropped off the face of the world only to come back and act like nothing fucking happened….I’ve got your answer: Fuck You (then the fucking guy has the fucking nerve (spineless bastard) to tell me his is in town visiting the fucking ex (the grapevine is delicious but if you aren’t looking their twist up into a noose and choke the living shit out of you and your pants will be full of shit and you will smell your stink with your last breath as your eyes roll into the back of your head and you have to wonder if Robert will ever forgive you for living) and that she’ll be out with us but he didn’t think it would be a problem) which then led to emailing the grapevine and pissing me the fuck off which made me feel better, “Fuck you - see, I already feel better” thank you M.A.C. which then lead to me calling the Seamen Receiver for something totally not related but I brought up what had been going on and the correspondence to the dumpster where then, and only then, I found out that the Seamen Receiver had been praying to Jesus about the two of us. “There is always something to be going wrong” - thank you Bullet for my Valentine.
Damn it woman! That is all I fucking need right now, for Jesus to get involved. Robert damn it! But I guess it wasn’t the dumpster’s fault, it was Jesus’ but how are you going to blame him for anything? Might as well put a .45 up your ass and hope the bullet puts shit into your brain. I don’t mind, really…it was more fun I guess and I am sure that my wonderful outlook on their plans didn’t dampen the uselessness of their evening and I am sure, absolutely sure that my not being there was of little consequence but if I was there, then there would be blood…oh yes, there will be blood. I’m better off without the lot of them - fucking redcoat loving same sex having tree hugging hippie flop wearing bitches. I’ll bury your asses. So I avoid the whole situation. Success. And if by success I mean get me the fuck back home then I fucking mean I am failing fucking miserably and maybe my Seamen Receiver ought to be praying to Robert for that instead.
I don't normally do this sort of nonsense but in this case, I will give way to the brilliance of someone else, whose words will strike deep into your very soul and force you to hang yourself by a telephone chord in the shower with a toaster plugged in waiting for the tub to fill, because, in this moment, at this very time (whilest I fiddle with my pickle) I cannot even begin to bring about the very truth like this passage set forth…
The consultant - a poem about the Matchmaker
“if you love something,” says the Matchmaker, “set it free.”
Just don’t be surprised if it comes back with herpes…
The Matchmaker onstage, he slouches with his hands
In the pockets of his bib overalls.
His boots crusted with dried horse shit.
His shirt, plaid. Flannel. With pearl snaps instead of buttons.
Onstage, instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment:
Of wedding videos where brides and grooms trade rings
And kiss to run outside to blizzards of white rice.
All this trickles across his face, the Matchmaker’s bottom lip
Stretched to pocket a chaw
Of chewing tobacco.
The Matchmaker says, “The girl I loved, she thought she
Could do better.”
This girl, she wanted a taller man, with a deep tan, long
Hair, and a bigger dick.
Who could play the guitar.
So she said “no” when he’d first kneeled down to propose.
So the Matchmaker hired a whore named Steed, a male
Prostitute who advertised:
Long hair and a dick as tick as a can of chili. And who
To play a few chords.
And steed pretended to meet her by accident, at church.
Then, again, at the library.
The Matchmaker paying two hundred dollars per date
And taking notes as the whore told him how much the
Girl liked her nipples
Played with from behind. And how best to make her
Come two or three times.
Steed sent her roses. He sang songs. Steed fucked her in
Back seats and hot tubs,
Where he swore eternal love and devotion.
Then didn’t call her for a week. Two weeks. A month.
Until he pretended to meet her by accident, at church
There Steed said they were finished - because she was too
Slutty. Almost a whore.
“I swear,” the Matchmaker’s secret plan to give his girlfriend
A premature, accelerated broken heart. Then catch her
On the rebound.
His last meeting with Steed, he paid an extra fifty bucks for
A blow job.
Steed kneeling there at work between his knees.
This way, when his future wife had her well-researched,
The man in her head would not be a total stranger to her husband,
Seriously, fucking Robert, Seriously… I am speechless. Well, I have lots to say but without the audience or the proper material to burry someone with I will swallow my words and choke “on the end of a dick that comes lead” - Thank you GJ. Fuck that. I’ll tell you one thing Chucky and I have it all right. When we give a fucking shit we go to the ends our brains in order to please and what does it get you, in the end? It gets you blown by the very guy you pay to fuck your whore. Right on Mr. P. Couldn’t have said it better myself. I’d pay someone to fuck the Grapevine with a nine inch black dildo with a fucking meat cleaver strapped to the end. Fucking calling me up to go have a beer. What, did you get bailed on or was I like the last option? Don’t extend to me your gracious presence because I’d rather choke on a four inch clit off the end of a heroin junky. Don’t try and amend this. And don’t fucking try calling me either after two fucking years and say you are going to be in town and want to stop by. You fucking bitch. You walk away and then expect that things don’t progress to this current state? Fuck you. You fucking weak fucking redcoat hugging bitch boy. I hear you found another girl to get married to who will then only turn into a lesbian and dump you so that someone else can help you gather your cock and balls and socially awaken you to your inner beauty only for you to wrap it up in a balloon full of coke and swallow it and enjoy bleeding out of your ass while you pass the fucking rubbers. Then you dig through your own shit and slice open the balloons and breathe in your fucking sorrow and your ride the fucking tracks for days not sleeping or eating and cranking off so much that your dick bleeds. You fucking lesbian fucking bitch. Call me. Bastard. I'm going to the gym where I'll punch the shit out of a bag just to make you bleed.
I am the number one pick...I'll fucking gut you!
Any of you dumpsters that The Marine has decided to forgive (because it is obviously your fucking fault) you can eat the taint part of my ass…that’s right, the part between the back of my fucking nuts and the tip of my asshole (the same part I used to rub on Fathead’s phone while he slept because it is hilarious to think he’ll be having phone sex with Beth and he’ll be tasting my taint (ahh…the taint, almost as deadly as the bohemious (the area of hair above your ass crack and below your lower back where often the hairs will collect sweat)) or you can deep throat my cock (balls deep please). Seriously, if you are making him feel bad then I am going to stomp your chode. You broke our hearts, we broke yours…I think it is defined as life. Fucking dumpsters. If, however you weren’t a dumpster then good day to you sir, ma’am, miss, Mrs. Whoever. We knew it, you knew it. That is the game we play. However, there are no winners…only losers. With a capital fucking L cut through the center of your heart or my heart or your friend’s heart or the heart of an unknown stranger who just so happens to get caught in the crossfire and takes it in the heart and bleeds onto their shoes and gets pissed because they were brand new fucking Jordans and even though that fucking bastard gambles and smokes Cubans and beats his wife he is still pissed because he broke two Bens on them a week ago and now he has his blood all over them but they get over it rather quickly (quickly like a two dollar hoe bag sucking you off in the back ally of Burger King but she has to move on because Ron is there bobbing some twelve-year-old’s penis while feeding his puppy Jr. Bacon Cheese burgers from Wendys (I know he is behind Burger King but Ron Loves the Wendys almost as much as he likes getting rammed by men) when a worker comes out and sees the wrappers from Wendys on the ground and then they call the cops not because of the deep throating (as deep as you can go on a little boy (I was hung like a champ at twelve (just ask Eugine))) but because of the two dollar hoe that’s got your nuts in her throat and your spooge in her eye) because after they see their own blood oozing all over their kicks they die and I’m smiling “from a good safe distance” - thank you Tool (I don’t like the sight of blood, yours, or mine) because I rather enjoy the heartbreak, yours, mine, or theirs.
Robert, that was a mouth full. I’m talking Ron Jermy Banana Cock full, where when the cock is inserted it curves up the throat and tickles the back of the nose and the eye sockets. That guy’s got a cock to be jealous of, almost as much as fucking Tommy Lee. Robert fucking Robert, that thing would kill given the chance and the proper fuck position.
Seriously, the days of old are just that. Can you be sorry? Sure, and probably should be. But we move on, on both sides. We learn from them all. For instance, let me educate some learning to you. Lets take Dumpster A. for example. Dumpster A enjoys you (insert any name). Dumpster A. laughs at your jokes, enjoys your presence, takes time out of her day to visit you at work, answers the door to the apartment naked and takes you roughly on the floor, goes down on you while you are trying on pants in a department store, buys you thoughtful gift for your birthday, jesusmas, or random days in between, is all around the best thing anyone could ask for (I will at this time suggest that if you (again, you is a relative term) feel this way you will also find that after ripping through dumpster after dumpster they might all see to be perfect but you will find flaws in each one, escalating with each dumpster to the point where you are only involved because of the sex, or the potential for sex (or for the potential for the sex with her sister, or her sisters’ friend) when it only becomes necessary to avoid any relationship of meaning, unless the relationship is worth the bullet to the brain) but Dumpster A. will slowly want to suck on other people’s cock and Dumpster A. isn’t going to tell you that when she is with her friends she is really going down on someone else and she’ll chew some gum and she’ll come home with her throat coated in seaman and she’ll kiss you and she’ll go to sleep and you’ll wonder why she hasn’t fucked you like she meant it in a month. So you dump the Dumpster and move on to Dumpster B. but you can’t trust her because of Dumpster A.’s love of cock so you can’t treat her like she should be treated. Soon enough you are on Dumpster C.3, having gone through the alphabet three times you’ve realized that it is all not worth the time spent, the money spent, the bailing on your friends (who understand but are required by law to give you shit about it), the bailing on the shit you want to do, the cheating on your hand because you spent so much time rearranging her organs on her Daddy’s couch while he was asleep upstairs and you’d look over at the dog and wonder if he could talk, would he rat you out? The lesson is we can’t take what happened with Dumpster A. and hold it against Dumpster C.3. And they wont hold it against us. It might be the single hardest thing to bring to a relationship other than what you got working below the belt - say no more! Robert, I swear, the best solution is to think that yesterday never existed, and plan on forgetting anything that will happen tomorrow.
A few lines, since I know how much you crave it from behind…
She stopped your breathing
With her mouth with little consequence
Like the spinning tires after the collision,
The high beams still burning
Only pointed into the tree-tops from the ditch.
And when she asked you if you were alright
You could only smile.
Last names and feelings. Seriously…I can’t even remember half of you bitches let alone your last fucking names. And I know that I don’t care and you shouldn’t either. And if you did it doesn’t fucking matter, you don’t have feelings anyway. It’s like I don’t have to ask for anal, you just do it.
Taking away my vaction like it did.
Heads will roll. Bodies will tumble away from the rolling heads. And I have never seen such beauty.