Tuesday, August 31, 2004

Could she be any worse?

I know some of you people think Jasmine is perfect. I got that impression when some of you said, “Jasmine is perfect!” That’s just how fucking astute I am, let me tell you. So I sat down and started thinking about all of her hideous flaws that make her luckier to have me than vice versa. Oh yes, you are vibrating with excitement. It’s another fucking list! Allow me to itemize the wench’s faults below:

1. She will not do my laundry.
2. She likes the Dallas Cowboys.
3. When I knock on her door, she does not answer it naked.
4. She won’t let me fiddle with her titties whenever I want.
5. When it’s 108 degrees outside, her feet are 67 degrees and she’s trying to stick them between my thighs.
6. She won’t let me help myself to her food whenever we’re eating out.
7. She’s always telling me, “You need to calm yourself.” Bullshit. BULLSHIT!
8. She leaves long dark hairs all over the place.
9. I have to knock before entering rooms in my own house.
10. She refuses to address me by my true name, “Adonis.”
11. She drives a Japanese automobile.
12. She has a nubbin. She says it’s a mole but I know a damn nubbin when I see one. If it perks when you’re cold it’s a nipple. If it shrinks, it’s a penis, but that’s another circum…circumstance.
13. She’s 3 inches shorter than I am but we have the same inseam. Actually, that’s hot.
14. She gloats when she wins at air hockey. That right there is poor sportsmanship, folks.
15. She has three gray hairs and will only admit to two. Pretending not to see it does not make it any less so. One, two, three!
16. She thinks the Coors Light “Here’s to Football” songs are stupid.

How you like that? She ain’t so perfect anymore, now is she? Ha! Now allow me to point out all of my perks just to be sure you understand how lucky she really is:

1. I got an Honorable Mention in my 4th grade spelling bee.
2. I have a nice ass.
3. I’m humble.
4. Did I mention my ass?
5. I can do the touchdown dance drunk or sober.
6. Watch how I can tighten each cheek independently.
7. I can spell supercalifragilisticexpialidocious(sp?).
8. I let chics win at air hockey.
9. Here, bounce this quarter off it and see for yourself.
10. I can cook like a mofo. It just takes some folks a few weeks to get used to everything tasting like TexJoy steak seasoning.
11. I know all of the words to every Coors Lite “Here’s to football” song.

I love playing two-hand touch
Eating way too much
Watching my team win
With the twins

I love quarterbacks eating dirt
Pom-poms and short skirts
Fans who won’t quit
And those twins

And I love you, too!
Here’s to football!

Monday, August 30, 2004

No more audio for you!

FYI, I have taken Audio Blogger offline for now to keep the audio posts from breaking up the meaningful, touching shit I am known for. We'll do it again in a few weeks. Save your voice/jingles till then.


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"Hey Jay, this is Brandi..."

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"Hey, this seemed like a great idea..." female, no name

Who are the people in your neighborhood?

I was scanning some of your blogs tonight. Got a gander of a couple of Filipino boys at Leese's place, Jenn reminded me that I haven't written this week's story for Fizzle & Pop, and I have noticed either Nita has 14 newborn infants or she really likes to photograph the one little niña a whole helluva lot. I saw several blogplates have changed, some thanks to Big Daddy James, some just new templates. A couple of them had some pretty cool things incorporated, like Kelly's blog which has metamorphed overnight. So this sent me out on my own journey to seek and explore.

I scanned some free template sites to see if anyone had some cool new ideas I could lift and claim as my own. What I learned, unfortunately, is that I'm not hip enough to understand the fucking instructions as to what the damn thing is. For instance:

hmmm. my 1st skin. 1st tyme d0ing diis. h0pe y0uu all lyk it... plz leave ur c0mments! thnz a milli0n! diis iis a skin... a picture sh0wing sumb0die drawingg a heart 0n da sand. itx quite sweet. mayb ish f0r gurls cuz itx c0l0r is mainlyy pynk and purple. kekeez... quite nice actuallie. c it f0r urself.

Are you fucking kidding me? What in the name of Christ is that shit up there? I was sure I'd stumbled across some freak of nature with 49 piercings in his face because his daddy didn't beat him enough when he was a child so I moved on to the next one and found this:

In response to iceattitude... Its not mi editin it wif da photoshop... I get the image frm getty images..i simply juz crop da pic out of da original one... if ya guys don like it don take it... N it has nth to wif any defects... Like it take it, don like it.. den don take it...I'm so sad wif all this comments.. each commentin on it bein bad... izzit realliz tat bad? Nvm.. One more thing, if ya don like da music juz change it.. Don tell mi ya don like da music or wat... i put tat music is juz to create da image of bein happi.. Will ya guys understand? For the past skins.. all r depressin.. now i wanna make a happi one.. it turns out tiz way.. Nvm.. Like it.. Take it..tats all...I oreadi alter those things ya guys don like... but as fer da pic.. i cant do anythin..

That son of a bitch right there needs an ass whipping. I think in the middle somewhere he might have insulted my Mama. It took me 15 goddamn minutes just to read the shit and translate it back into English from Illiterate Retard.

You literately challenged motherfucker! Where in the hell were you at the day they taught the rest of us the difference between Geek and Ghetto? That shit just doesn't work. Pick one, dammit! Geek...Ghetto...Geek...Ghetto. Bitch! Go get a shitty job and have some shitty experiences in life so you can grow the fuck up and write a shitty blog. Like me. And use English, you third ward motherfucker wannabe.

Friday, August 27, 2004

Bust a nut

I stopped at Sam’s Warehouse to pick up a few cases of water and Gatorade and shit during lunch today. That’s where I saw the group of dark haired come hither beauties in one of the aisles. They all had long hair, flowers behind their right ears, tight t-shirts and floral skirts with flip flops. Little far from Hawaii, aren’t you?

They had with them a flat rather than a cart and were staring at some large sacks. They were speaking Mali kiliki maka shit to each other and looking back and forth between the sacks and the flat. That’s my cue.

“You ladies need some help?”

All five of them turned around at once and I’ll be damned if they weren’t hot as hell. Well, all except that one goat faced freak but she was fucked up from birth and you just can’t blame a person for bad genes. Her parents, on the other hand, damn well should have been sterilized before that atrocity happened or drowned afterwards to prevent it from happening again. “Baaaaah.”

“Please, can you load these four onto here?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I step up and look at the sacks and then smile back at the ladies, winking at the prettiest one for purely superficial reasons. “Just four?”

“Yes, please.”

“No problem.” I wrap my arms around the first one, completely unprepared for the weight and mistakenly let a groan slip out before I can stop it. I hear someone snicker behind me as my pride goes up in flames. When I dropped the son of a bitch onto the flat I glanced at it to see what in the hell weighed so much but the burlap sack wasn’t labeled. What the fuck is in there, a smuggled Mexican?

I grab the second sack, this time prepared for the weight but no stronger now than I was before. I manage to keep from making any audible sounds of weakness but I felt vessels in my face bulge to the surface just before I dumped it onto the flat.

I grabbed the third sack, determined to make it look easy. When I hoisted it up I felt the fiery pain as my left nut exploded. Oh, shit, God help me! I let the sack fall from my arms to the flat in a booming thud and counted them twice, praying a fourth one had somehow managed to drag itself onto the flat for me.

“We need more, sir, please.”

I know what the fuck you need! I offer her a smile that borders a cringe with a polite, “Are you sure?” They all nod. Fucking A.

Deep breath. Exhale. Deep breath. I grab the fourth sack, hoist it up and fling it in the direction of the flat, half landing on board, half hitting the floor. My nut burned so bad I couldn’t take a step. We all stood there staring at it, waiting for someone to take the initiative to fix it. I gathered, and rightly so, that they thought this to be my job. With a wide-legged gait I mosey on up to the flat and adjust the sacks to get them all on.

“You ladies have a good day now.” I slowly amble back toward my cart. Thank God I’d already loaded up my own cases of water.

Afterwards I finally got checked out and managed to load my shit into my vehicle. Right as I went to put my key into the ignition I saw the Polynesians standing beside a decorated van with this website written on the side. Besides the five women were four cut-up, steroid eating motherfuckers with long hair to their waists and shorts and floral shirts.

As I drove around them to leave I saw two more ripped sons of bitches loading those infamous sacks. They were grabbing them like you would an animal, by the scruff of its neck and hind end, and tossing them effortlessly into the back of the van. Piece of shit showoffs. Where the fuck were they at when my goddamn ball popped?

Chester the child molester

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"Damn. I could really use a twinkie right now." Steverino

Thursday, August 26, 2004

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"Hello! I didn't want to be the only one not to post..."


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Pardon my distortion. Here's the lyrics to "Jay Day":

Back in the day
In the southern USA
There lived my homepiece, name was Jay
And his crotch he would display
A nineteen-seventies cliché
I axed him please, take it away
Your pants too tight, that ain’t OK
Are you a dancer of ballet?

I know he’ll say:
"Hey, it’s porno night today
Ron Jeremy, hey-hey!"
I shoulda probably guessed he’s gay
There’s nothing wrong with it, OK?
But my jimmy, stay away
See what I’m sayin’, Popinjay?
Here on this audioblog you play
This is Mike’s voice to your dismay


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"Hey Jay, this is Ricky..."


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"What's up Big Jay? It's Becker..."

Rated R

Wednesday, August 25, 2004


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"Hey everybody, I just wanted to call and join in the fun..."

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"Hi everybody, I just wanted to say hi..."

Seeker II

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"Jay, you bizznitch, this is Seeker..."


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"Well if this doesn't show up I'm going to be truly fucking pissed..." A pissed off Seeker. And that's unusual?

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"Hello Big Jay and hello everyone..."

Regan/Evil Science Chic/Bunsen Burner

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"OK everybody. This is Regan slash Evil Science Chic slash Bunsen..."

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"Hello everyone. I feel like a moron talking to myself..."

A photograph

I want to show you a photograph.

It’s in color, but faded. Overall it has a reddish tint from age with a wide, white border around the image, the style you’d expect of a photo taken in the mid 70’s. There’s a subtle crease at the lower right corner that was quickly smoothed out, but not avoided. In the photo it is outdoors and sunny with short shadows. The camera is positioned between two worn paths in the grass—apparently an old driveway. At the end of the drive a red Volkswagen beetle is looking back at the lens.

Between the camera’s position and the car is a woman—a tall Italian with long, dark hair that falls straight to her bust. It’s parted on her left side, no bangs, and piled somewhat high on top. She’s smiling broadly, teeth and dimples displayed even though the sun is in her eyes. Diagonal brown and white stripes across the front of her blouse reach from shoulder to hip where an infant sits securely. Short wisps of the baby's dark hair are caught in the air from a breeze as she clings to her mother’s blouse and looks openly at the camera. She is wearing a white t-shirt and white plastic bottoms with no shoes.

On the left of the woman is a young girl about 5 years old. She has dark hair like her mother’s and is wearing a short sleeved, yellow plaid dress and white socks that run from foot to knee. She’s squinting, one eye closed, but smiling enough to display her own inherited dimples. On the right is a young boy with a round, bowl hair cut. He’s not yet 3 years old and standing about a foot away from the other three. His little green shirt has a darker green hem around the neck and arms and a faded picture of Big Bird on the front. His fists are on his hips and a scowl on his face, legs tightly together and feet securely planted. He is not smiling.

In the background are lots of trees and a shoddy, self-made carport in the far right.

Now flip the photograph over. In a woman's handwriting you see:

Me with Julie, Jay & Katy and our first new car. 8-25-76

My old man pulled this photograph from his wallet today and handed it to me. With it he said, “What I would give to take that picture again…”

Tuesday, August 24, 2004


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"Hey Jay. This is a fan of yours..."

Rob the bouncer

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"Hey everyone, I just wanted to add a little intrigue..." Rob the Bouncer


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"Hey hey, guess who it is? Um, don't really want to sound like an idiot here..."


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"Hi Jay, this is Zelda..."


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"Hey everybody, this is B Daddy James..."


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"Hey everybody, hey Jay, this is Angi..."

I can't find a pic of Angi, so I'm using one of Savannah instead. If you don't know who Savannah is, you should find out.


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"Hi guys, it's Aimee..."


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"Hey everybody, well this is a fun game..." Kat

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"Hey Jay, hey everybody else, this is Angi..."

Monday, August 23, 2004

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"Hi Jay, hi everybody, this is Inanna..."

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"Hello, my name is John..."
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"Big Jay rocks, and you know this..."

Introducing audio

Let's have a little audio fun. I have set up an Audio Blogger account for Right-Brained wherein anybody can place an audio message directly onto my blog. Here's how it works:

Dial the following telephone number:


After Audio Blogger answers enter the following as your phone number:


The temporary PIN for this round is:


It's like leaving a message on someone's voicemail. You will have the opportunity to listen to it first and then publish or delete it. If this loser can do this shit anyone can.

For those who are audio-shy, I have located this slick ass site by AT&T that will allow you to type your message, then choose a voice to speak it for you. Same process with the phone, but instead of speaking you click play on the website and let the PC talk for you.

Wait a second...did I just write an entire post without using the word fuck?

Sunday, August 22, 2004


Ever do those visual tricks where you stare at a bunch of crap on the screen, then look at a blank wall and see a word or the Mona Lisa or some shit burned into your eyes? This is along those lines. I wasn't expecting to see what I did.

Friday, August 20, 2004

The anit-blow jobbers

A few nights ago I found myself planted at a table holding a lovely spade flush in a friendly game of Texas Hold ‘Em, or THE for short, when one of the brokers commented on his sex life. Actually, it was the lack thereof. This boy’s wife doesn’t do oral sex. He’s asked, begged, cajoled…nada. She will not go down on him.

At first we laughed and then a somberness settled in as each of us realized the consequences of marrying a woman who doesn’t give head, the “till death do we part” consequences, or TDDWP for short.

You ladies like it, right? To receive? Well hell, we like it to. I’ve dated a couple, just a couple, of women before who refused to suck a dick. Mine, to be more precise. Not that Big Jay’s fucked up or has two eyes or anything, as far as you know. They were just “anti-blow jobbers”, or ABJ’s for short. And when I learned this disheartening news it didn’t occur to me that I might never get one for the rest of my life because to be quite frank, they weren’t going to make the cut.

Now before the booing begins, I’m not saying I’d dump a woman because she won’t give my boy a lick. If Jasmine refused I’d stick around, but I might become dangerously inventive with the vacuum cleaner hose out of desperation someday and wouldn’t that be an embarrassing explanation at the hospital/vacuum repair shop? But that’s because it’s Jasmine. Those others? Fuck ‘em. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, ya damn ABJ's.

Think about what you do to your man when you refuse to eat the sausage. We are sexual pigs. Help us! Don’t challenge us. We might not go out looking to cheat, but don’t blame us when we bring shame and dishonor on your entire family because we are busted in the Johnny on the Spot, or JOTS for short, deflowering a pumpkin. It happens, believe you me.

I’m not here asking you to slip off your panties in the middle of the Red Lobster and give us a tug and a jug at the dinner table, or TAAJ for short. Just once in a while, juice it up for us, ya know? We won’t even be greedy. No head pushing, we’ll be oh so quick, trust us, and this time we swear we’ll warn you before it happens. Scout’s honor.


I have another post waiting in the wings but it has a blogger link in it that isn't working. Fucking piece of shit. "Our servers are currently under maintenance at this time. We apologize for the inconvenience."

On a Friday afternoon, motherfuckers? I don't think so. Why don't you say what you really mean. "Our servers have been screwed sideways by a bitch of a virus we were too sloppy to see coming. We apologize for sucking ass."

Thursday, August 19, 2004

Can I? Can I? Can I?

Conversation over dinner:

"I want to post those pictures on my blog."


"Why not?"


The puppy eyes go into effect. "Pleeeease!"

An eyeroll is bestowed upon me. "No, Jay. I don't want some cyber shrine out there for weirdos to see me."

She wasn't talking about you folks, FYI, she was sincerely referring to stalkers and such. Jasmine is outrageously private, unlike myself. "No weirdos will see them. Except The Dave, but he's in Colorado."

"The who?"

"Forget it. Come on, Jazz, I'll give you a massage."

She laughs. "I've had your massages, sweetie, and no offense but you're not bargaining for anything with that."

Ouch. In my defense, the massage is merely a tool to get her naked, thus, I am generally not concerned with quality but with attaining my goal. "I'll let you beat me in air hockey."

"I don't need you to let me. Remember?"

One lucky shot and she thinks she has redefined the game. Perhaps a compromise. "How about just one? You pick. Come on, baby, they think you're a man."

She laughs again. "What? Nevermind. No, Jay. Want my greek olives?"

"Sure." As I suck the meat off the pit, a sentence I will never utter out loud, I consider my options. I got a big negative on asking, begging and compromising. Time to break out the big guns.

"I didn't want to have to do this..." She sighs and glares at me in obvious agitation. I am fully aware I risk celibacy, but I'm confident I can turn this around. "Those people not only jumped to your defense yesterday, but some of them thought about you all day and came back time and time again to post suggestions. A couple even offered to whip his ass. Don't you think that at least warrants a peep?"

Precious seconds ticked by. She stared, wheels turning, I could see it. I struggled to keep a straight face when all I wanted to do was grin like a fool and kiss her. It was coming. She was gonna cave. Just a few more seconds. And then she started shaking her head. Damn! She's slipping!

"Jazz, honestly...I just want to show you off. I just want to tell people, 'I'm with her.'"

She groaned and it was all over. "Fine." Yes! "But only one, Jay, I mean it. No shrine a la Jasmine. Understand?"

"Got it. Thank you!" I must have flashed every tooth in my mouth I was smiling so big. "You're so good to me."

"You owe me."

Okay, so here's how it's gonna work. Just to make a little more sport of it, I'm posting a link to the original photo without editing. This is the bridesmaids photo with the bride. Jasmine is one of the eight bridesmaids. Guess which one is her and when it's over I'll crop it down and email the answer to The Party.


Start guessing!

Hercules, of course

In honor of the Olympics going on across the pond right now here's a quick little quiz to figure out which Greek God or Goddess you are. Is anyone surprised to see my results?


?? Which Of The Greek Gods Are You ??
brought to you by Quizilla

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

Sexual harassment

Yesterday morning Jasmine mentioned to one of the senior brokers that she interned for a television station downtown during college. That evening she got an email from him at her personal email address stating he’d been considering running for President just so he could have an intern like her. He got her address from the back of an Avon catalog she’d left in the kitchen, a hobby of hers. She chose to ignore him and did not reply.

Tonight he emailed her a photo of a nude man going down on a nude woman with a caption that read “Do me and I’ll do you, too.”

I went fucking ballistic. First of all, he’s married. Second of all, he’s 60. Third of all, I’m going to kill him so the first two are moot points anyway.

She won’t tell me how she plans to deal with it. Honestly, I don’t think she knows yet. She went home very confused. She doesn’t want to ruin his career, but reporting this will go on his U-4 and that will follow him around forever. Not reporting it leaves her and every woman after her vulnerable. I trust her to do what’s right from a professional standpoint, but this shit needs to be settled man to man after the paperwork is done.

Monday, August 16, 2004


What time is it?


Damn. I haven’t posted shit today. Should I force it? Or should I pretend I was too busy and face the inquiry tomorrow? Genius like mine takes time to ripen, you know, like a fine wine. Then again, porn night isn’t exactly the stuff of a brilliant mind.

Did I mail in my registration payment for soccer today? Fuck, I think I forgot again. What the hell was I doing? I was thinking about it when I walked out this morning. Gotta mail my registration payment. Gotta mail my registration payment. Gotta…ooh, licorice!

Oh, yeah.

Why has my scalp been itching lately? Maybe I’m stressed. I wonder if I have psoriasis. Does leprosy itch? I’m hungry. Pizza sounds good.

Would you shut up? No fucking pizza! You’ve been asking for pizza all weekend!

But I want some pizza! Thin crust with pepperoni and mushrooms and onions.

How many miles did you run today?

Fuck you. That's right, you heard me. I said FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!

Whatever, dude. Shut the fuck up.

Uh oh, phone’s ringing.


“Hi, sweetie. I’m at the Jack. You want anything?”

“Jack in the Crack? Hell yeah. Get me three monster tacos.”

“Sure. See you in a few minutes.”

Mmm, greasy tacos made by a clown who’s never been to Mexico.

You don’t deserve her.

Man, don’t I know it.

Still gonna blog tonight?

Nah. Nothing to talk about. Wasn't there something I needed to do?

Friday, August 13, 2004


35 things about me you’d rather not know:

1. I time myself using the second hand every time I take a leak. Someday I will make a chart in Excel to calculate my average length of urination.
2. Demi Moore does it for me. She's better than porn.
3. For the several months before Jasmine came around, my lovers were Lever 2000 and Lubriderm.
4. I once sniffed a girl’s panties. Okay, twice.
5. I was the baby, and then the middle child, and then the baby again.
6. Love dogs. Hate cats. Weirdly fascinated with sloths.
7. I cried like a little bitch at the end of the movie “In America”
8. The cans of food in my pantry are label forward, neatly stacked. Don’t fuck with them.
9. I never make my bed. What the hell for? I’m just gonna fuck it up again in a few hours.
10. I mute the TV during commercials. Hate the noise.
11. I think Judge Judy is the shit.
12. I sing in the shower, the car, at work, while doing yard work. Loud, proud, and really bad.
13. I never return movies on time to Blockbuster. They love me.
14. I speed and I do it well.
15. I want little Jays. And maybe little Jasmines.
16. On that topic, I want to fucking tell people she’s mine goddammit. Soon…
17. I don’t lie.
18. #17 is a lie.
19. No it isn’t. See #17.
20. I attended a biker ball, full leather chaps, vest, jacket and boots. Even had a biker bitch, but she fell off the back of the bike before we got there.
21. Just kidding. She didn’t fall. I knocked her bitch ass off.
22. I put my stank feet on the coffee table and I fucking love it. That’s why I have a coffee table.
23. My middle name is Alan.
24. I admire proud black women. They love who they are and take shit from no one.
25. I do NOT read while I’m dropping a load. I shit you not.
26. I am the Frogger King on Atari
27. I am proud of my snaggle toe. Fuck you, The Dave.
28. I prefer to be on bottom so I can watch the hooters bounce during sex.
29. The thought alone of anal sex makes my ass cheeks clench…tightly. Sorry, kev.
30. I think rape should be punished via castration.
31. I hate women who fake orgasm. Don’t fucking lie to me. My ego does not need your bullshit. I’ll cum whether you do or not.
32. I eat pussy and I LOVE IT.
33. If I were on death row my last meal request would be “Pink Pussy with a side of jiggly Titties.”
34. I’ve got a 52” wide screen Hi-Def Sony with complete surround sound, a DVD player, 6 remote controls, and an aged brown leather recliner that will massage my ass until the cows come home, but nothing more than a metal frame and king size mattress set in my bedroom.
35. I believe in soul mates.

Nose strips from hell

When I went through the medicine cabinet for some ibuprofen I saw those things that Jazz wears on her nose. You know, those sticky things that suck the shit out of your pores. I leaned into the mirror to look at my pores. How can you tell if they have shit in them? I opened my mouth to stretch the skin taut (like my ass) and turned my head from side to side, top to bottom, perusing my pores. I think…I think maybe my pores could use a cleaning, what do you say?

Ok, so step one says to remove the strip from the package. Done. Next, dampen the nose area. Ok. I run my fingers under the water and pat my nose a few times until I have a good glisten going on. Piece of cake. Next? Apply strip to the moistened area. Allow to dry. No problem. First I fuck with the piece of shit trying to separate the clear plastic from the white, filmy thing for so long my nose dries off. Dammit, I wet it again. There. Sure as hell glad Jazz is in Dallas right now. I apply the filmy thing, looking like a very unfeminine Marcia Brady in the broken nose episode. I turn to Danety. “What do you think?” She does that single brow lift thing and leaves me to my stupidity.

Ok, so now what? Let dry, then remove quickly. Perfect. I’ll go eat some popcorn. About ten minutes go by when I feel like someone is slowly twisting my nose off my face. Holyshit, was this thing gummed with superglue? I start to wriggle my mouth and cheeks trying to break the bond and relieve the tension. I lasted about another two minutes before I couldn’t take it anymore. I went into the bathroom, grabbed the edge, and quickly ripped the son of a bitch off like the instructions said to do. “OWWW, FUUUUUUUUCK!” I grabbed the hair brush and slung it across the room for no good reason, because it just felt good to throw something. Shit! I checked the strip to see if my nose was still attached to it. What in the hell is wrong with you women? Is this some kind of fucked up torture device you use on one another? Do you sit around devising the most painful, unnecessary shit you can imagine to fuck up other women to increase your odds? “Oh, honey, your pores are filthy! Here, use this rubber cement flesh tape. Skin is soooo overrated. Men love cartilage.”

Men just don't do crap like that. Do you see men wrapping their shit in duct tape and ripping it off because they saw a pimple on their peckers? Has any man ever even fucking suggested that shit? “Bob, stick this on your dick and peel it off really fast. Be sure to get some hair in there, that’s what makes it worthwhile.”

Thursday, August 12, 2004

Weblog Review of Right-Brained

Read the Right-Brained Review by The Weblog Review!

...He also writes one of the most intriguing blogs I’ve ever read. I felt Right Brained had a strange voyeuristic nature to it like watching one of those reality TV programs complete with a variety of curious characters. Jay shares many stories about his co-workers and people in his life, his successes and failures. All with a matter of fact, simple honestly that I found very readable and appealing. Most of the entries are very entertaining, funny and well written. Stories about Cliff, ‘The Dave’, his family and of course Jasmine...

I'm loved! I don't know how The Dave's ass got mentioned in my review, but I'll forgive it. One fucker said I "swear" too much. It's called cussing, yankee, and it's a symbol of affection 'round these parts. But she still gave me props for my writing. Aww, gosh dammit that's sweet!

Wednesday, August 11, 2004

The Love Master


Got this from K's site. Thought it was funny considering Jazz is the Maid of Honor in that wedding in Dallas this weekend.

The Gentleman Deliberate Gentle Love Master (DGLMm)

Steady & mature. You are The Gentleman.

align="left"/>For anyone looking for an even-keeled, considerate lover, you're their man. You're sophisticated. You know what you want both in a relationship and outside of it. You have a substantial romantic side, and you're experienced enough sexually to handle yourself in that arena, too. Your future relationships will be long-lasting; you're classic "marrying material," a prize in the eyes of many. It's possible that behind it all, you're a bit of a male slut. Your best friends know that in relationships you're fundamentally sex-driven. You're a safe, reliable guy, who does get laid. In a lot of ways, you're like a well-worn, comfortable pair of socks. Did you ever jack off into one of those? All the time.

Your exact opposite:The Last Man on Earth

Your ideal mate is NOT a nut-job. She is giving and loving, like you, but also experienced. Avoid the The Battleaxe at all fucking costs. CONSIDER: The Maid of Honor, someone just like you.

And in case anyone might be looking, here's the description for my counterpart, The Maid of Honor:

The Maid of HonorDeliberate Gentle Love Master (DGLMf)

Appreciated for your kindness and envied for all your experience, you are The Maid of Honor.

Charismatic, affectionate, and terrific in relationships, you are what many guys would call a "perfect catch"--and you probably have many admirers, each wishing to capture your long-term love. You're careful, extra careful, because the last thing you want is to hurt anyone. Especially some poor boy whose only crime was liking you.

Your exact opposite:Half-cocked

We've deduced you're fully capable of a dirty fling, but you do feel that post-coital attachment after hooking up. So, conscientious person that you are, you do your best to reserve physical affection for those you respect...so you can respect yourself. Your biggest negative is the byproduct of your careful nature: indecision. You're just as slow rejecting someone as you are accepting them. ALWAYS

AVOID: The False Messiah, The 5-Night Stand, The Vapor Trail, The Bachelor

CONSIDER: The Gentleman, someone just like you.

(Thanks to AJ for the geek lesson on the pic's at Sloth's place.)


I slept with Marmaduke last night. Jasmine is driving to Dallas after work to be in a wedding this Friday. She told me she didn’t want me to take off work to go with her because the sister of another broker in the office was also in the wedding and she didn’t want to risk it. Damn. And I was so looking forward to it.

Marmaduke’s a big girl and the clumsiest bitch I’ve ever seen in my life. Danety is just not an appropriate name for her. Apparently she is still a puppy by giant, clumsy dog standards. I had a few things left over from my weekend with Squat so I figured I could handle her. Last night was our first night together, me and the Duke. I gave her Squat’s pillow, but it was barely big enough for her head. Hmm. I tossed her two more pillows, but I could see the incredulous look in her eyes when one doggie eyebrow actually lifted in query.

“Fuck you, it ain’t happening.”

I don’t wear the pants. Not with her, not with Jasmine, not with Kadybug. I am merely a pawn to them. Someone to babysit, dogsit, and torment. Occasionally I get a pat on the head and a “good boy” and in my mind that makes it all worth while. Last night I’d been in bed all of ten minutes when I heard movement at the foot. First one paw, then another, then this once tornado with claws suddenly became more agile than a cat as she silently pulled herself onto the bed, one paw at a time and gently laid down beside me, resting her massive Marmaduke head on the pillow as if she belonged there.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”


“Get down. Git! Go!”


“Danety, down! Go get on your pillows.”

She sneezed, spraying dog snot all over my arm in the dark. “Eww!”

Fuck me. I put my hands against her rib cage and started pushing. She was on to me, though. At 120 some odd pounds she simply stood up and plopped right back down practically on top of me, wriggling as I pushed against her, a flurry of long bony legs and sharp toenails. “Get off of me! Get—ouch! Get your fucking feet out of my crotch. Dammit, would you—ouch! Son of a bitch!! Stop it!”

The two of us laid there panting in the dark for a moment while I tried to cook up another plan of action. That’s when she rolled over, her legs pointing the other way, her back to me. I rolled my eyes in defeat but decided it was easier letting her sleep on that side than to fight with her over it. That’s when it occurred to me. I was played. Fucking women.

Today we’re going to go catch the Frisbee. In the Bayou. Hope she can swim.

Tuesday, August 10, 2004

Another stupid quiz

Got this quiz site off Aimee, but had to alter it just a bit. If it had an outcome it would be much cooler, but my life was outrageously boring today and I'm too lazy to drudge up any of the humiliating shit from my past that you people like to know about me. Sick twisted fucks.

My kind of crowd.

I'll do some bloggity blog blogging tomorrow. Tally ho!

him or her?her
gentle or rough?gentle
fake it or notnot
left or right?right
east or west?west
north or south?south
top or bottom?bottom
upright or lying down?upright
give or receive?give
spit or swallow?swallow
drink or drive?drink
europe or jamaica?europe
cat or dog?dog
me or you?you
perky or droopy?perky
hard or soft?soft
suck or blow?suck
nipples or navels?navels
necks or ear lobes?necks
nude or clothed?nude
blonde or brunette?brunette
green or blue?green
blue or brown?blue
short or tall?tall
try and fail or fail to try?try and fail
standing or sitting?standing
from behind or above?behind
chocolate or vanilla?vanilla
vanilla or strawberry?vanilla
yes or no?yes


A lump in my pants

After I drained the lizard tonight I scratched my ass and thought I felt something out of the ordinary. Call me crazy, but I’m a bit paranoid about tumors shooting from my ass or nipples or wherever the hell else my family has gotten them. So like any curious soul would do, I dropped my pants and turned in a circle trying to get a glimpse. No luck, and I felt like a Schnauzer. I backed my ass up to the bathroom counter hoping for a better view.

“Jay, what in the hell are you doing?”

Shit! I quickly jerked my pants back up to my waist. “Are your knuckles broken? What are you doing in here?”

“I asked you first.”

She was grinning, snickering if you ask me. Dammit, this is a medical emergency. "I felt a mass if you must know,” I explained, emphasizing the dire seriousness of the matter.

“A mass on your ass?”

She threw her head back and laughed. I don’t need this bullshit. I could have melanoma here and she’s playing some fucking Dr. Suess rhyming game. “Jasmine, get out. My malignancy and I would like to be alone for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Turn around, Jay. Show me where you felt it.” Her jovial mood was not sobered a bit despite her words.

Reluctantly, I lowered my jeans and underwear enough for her to see the area while she held my shirt up out of the way. “Do you see it?” I heard her gasp. Oh, shit! “What is it? What do you see?” I knew it! “Is it large?”

“No, it’s small. Hold still, okay, babe?”

“What are you gonna—OWWW!!! What the fuck?” I spun around, shielding my ass from whatever the hell she just did to it. “Jesus Christ! Is it cancer?”

She held up her index finger. On the tip of it was a little white sticker that read “Inspected by #37”.

“Your biopsy was negative. I performed a stickerectomy.” She smiled and stuck the ass inspection sticker on my shirt and left me and my ass alone in the bathroom to recuperate.

I think she takes pleasure in humiliating me.

Sunday, August 08, 2004

Chernobyl Ass

My old man handles fear with humor. I think that makes it easier for him to tackle heavy subjects, laughing at them first. Those of you who have been around awhile remember my post about 6 weeks ago when his biopsy came back. His cancer was in stage II meaning it was centrally located in the prostate only, had not metastasized into the surrounding nodes or organs, and was large enough to be palpable. A few weeks ago he had a radical prostatectomy and received internal radiation therapy. By the way, Seeker, I realized after the fact I told you chemo, but I meant radiation. Chemo is for stage IV. My mind was elsewhere.

The morning he went in for surgery he was quiet. I asked him where he kept his life insurance policy, just in case. He laughed and I was glad to see it. When they came in to prep him I told him, “They’re gonna give you girly nuts.” He silently held up his index finger. I knew what it meant, but didn’t give a damn. What was he going to do? Some nurse was about to shave his package. He had other things to worry about.

This past week after pathology had time to examine the tumor he went in again for the radiation. The implant was only in place two days before it was removed. While it was implanted we were told my old man would be emitting a very low dose of radioactive waves. Oh, I had fun with this. When I drove dad home he started riding my ass about missing my entrance ramp. “I’m trying, Dad! I can’t think straight. Your ass is fucking with my brain waves.” That’s when he held up two fingers, not a word spoken. Psht. Whatever.

One of the side effects of the prostatectomy is possible impotence. So when Jazz and I brought Dad some supper last night I asked him if he wanted a drink. “Might be the last stiff one you see for a while.” This time I got all three fingers. Strike three. He didn’t speak a word, but I know my old man. It’s coming. Like I care. He’s got nothing on me. Afterwards, we sat down in the living room together while dad spent some time getting to know Jasmine a little better. That’s when he did it.

“Did Jay ever tell you he broke his arm when he was a boy?”

I froze in mid sip, the glass of scotch hovering just inches from my mouth. Don’t do it, old man.

“No!” Jasmine turned to me, her amazing eyes wide with concern as if it just happened. Damn, she’s good to me.

“Dad, nobody cares about that.”

“He fell out of tree.” This is when he leaned forward to whisper to Jasmine, as if I couldn’t hear him sitting right next to her. “He was hiding from a bully that had been picking on him--”

“Dad, seriously. Nobody gives a damn what happened over 20 years ago. How’s your ass, is it burning? Any stinging in your package from a radiation leak?”

The man had an uncanny way of ignoring everything around him when he focused on something. Drove my mom nuts. “Boy, what was that kid’s name? The one you used to be so scared of?”

Both of them stared at me, awaiting a name. Forget it. No way. Not going there. Ten seconds went by, they continued to stare. Shit! I’ll get him for this.

With all the pride I could muster, I rolled my eyes and took my medicine.

“Rachel Foster.”

Friday, August 06, 2004

Do the math, bitches!

It’s Tax Free Weekend in Texas. It’s something Bush put in place when he was governor. Basically, all purchases of clothing, shoes and various other items are exempt from the state’s 8.25% sales tax. I believe sales tax is lower in other states, but we don’t pay state income taxes so it balances out I suppose.

Back to my point, and trust me, there isn’t one, the malls are packed today like a bunch of Mexicans in an 18 wheeler being smuggled across the border. Oh, shut up, it’s true. What I don’t get is why people flock to the stores, ringing up $1,000 in shirts and shoes and pants from Kohl’s and JCPenny before the sales tax exemption ends at midnight Sunday. Why am I not surprised trailer trash floods every Wal-Mart within shooting distance, like an army of ants following the stench of death? It’s an 8% discount people! What the fuck are you rushing the stores in hoards for? 8%! Hell, even that red apple sale Foley’s runs every quarter is 30-50%. Do the fucking math you imbeciles.

The roads are jammed. The highways are at a standstill. Red lights have a waiting period of at least 10 changes before you get through. It’s a hundred-fucking-eight degrees out there and I’m sweating like a $2 dollar whore on nickel night trying to navigate across a 6 lane overchange stuck in gridlock. I can’t get in to pay for a motherfucking pair of jogging shorts because the checkout lines wrap around the store. I’ll pay DOUBLE the tax if someone would just check me the fuck out in 1 hour or less! I got so pissed off with this chaotic bullshit I dropped my shorts atop the arm load of full price, tax free clothes the special education bitch behind me was holding and spent 90 minutes making a 13 mile drive home. Fuck it. I’ll run naked.

Thursday, August 05, 2004

Deviance at its finest

Once a month I take public transportation downtown to meet my clients who are far wealthier than I and are unwilling to meet me in suburbia. Parking is a joke downtown. Once a week I hear about some imbecile who gave a $10 to a poser in a dirty t-shirt with beer on his breath at 9am who claimed to be the lot attendant. Five hours later the car is gone, towed off by the lot owner who discovers it parked illegally.

I actually enjoy the Metro ride downtown. I take the bus first, then the rail and vice versa on the way home. Yesterday while I was standing at the Metro stop a man walked across the street to stand near me. He was wearing dirty jeans two sizes too large, hadn't shaved in weeks, smelled like skunk ass, and was carrying a white U.S. postal crate that read "IT IS A PUNISHABLE CRIME TO REMOVE THIS CRATE FROM THE PREMISES." So much for theft detterence.

I put some distance between us, then heard a nagging voice in my head, not the female one but the male one this time (there are so many it's hard to keep them straight), reprimanding me for judging this person for being lower class or even homeless. Arrogant bastard. Am I any better than he because my shoes are shined and my tie is silk? Because my abs are rock solid and my perky ass is taut and yummy? No, my friend. I am not. This fella has had a hard life, provoked by social constructions that encourage him to have what I have, but rob him of the capital to do so, forcing upon him a miserable livelihood riddled with obstacles. What a dick I am. I walked back under the covered port where he was at.

That's when he pulled out a 6 inch blade and started polishing it with his dirty, deviant, crack infested shirt. I trotted my judgmental ass to the next bus stop two blocks away. Fuck humanity.

Tuesday, August 03, 2004

The retard class

Ever recall a childhood memory and wonder what the fuck that was all about? That happened to me today. Besides the fact that I remembered my 2nd grade teacher always scratching her coochie in front of us, because at 7 we’re too stupid to know what she’s doing, I recalled something from 4th grade.

Our school had a supply room and a supply teacher. She didn’t actually teach anything, she just “managed” the supplies in the little independent shed-like building near the playground. When we needed more colored construction paper, someone was sent to Mrs. Pfluger’s room to fetch some.

When I was sitting in traffic today I thought about Mrs. Pfluger. She used to show up to Mrs. Johnson’s class once a week and Mrs. Johnson would send 5 of us with her. Three boys and two girls. Mrs. Pfluger would bring us to the supply room and play a record, some cutesy song. She’d hold her hand out in front of her, facing us, and touch her thumb to forefinger.

“Follow me. Touch. Touch. Touch. Touch,” in rhythm to the music. Then she’d switch hands. “Now your left! Touch. Touch. Touch. Touch.”

Once we got into the groove she’d turn her back and tap her right foot out to the side. ‘Now the left! Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.” This would go on for about 30 minutes, switching back and forth between left and right, until the record stopped. Then she’d line us up and bring us back to the classroom where the rest of our classmates would be in the middle of Reading. This went on every week for about two months.

So 20 years later I’m sitting here wondering… Dude…was I in the retard class?

Umm, it's Geoffrey

People with OCD are fun. One of our brokers who has been around for many years suffers from it; hence, we all suffer from it. His name is Geoffrey and whatever you do, don’t fucking spell it Jeffrey. And don’t call him Geoff. It’s Geoffrey, bitch. Know it. Love it. Live it.

Geoffrey has a red felt tip ink pen. He has this pen with him at all times. He can’t function without the pen as it represents his voice. Without it, Geoffrey can not speak. He is incapable of addressing anyone verbally. How this man has become as successful as he is I will never understand. Geoffrey is a note writer. One a single sheet of white copy paper he will scrawl a hand written note in red ink and walk that son of a bitch to your office, gently placing it on your desk before you, then walking back to his office before you ever notice he was there.

Today my note read, “Can I get a prospectus from you for Am Fds Cap Growth Equity Fd? -Geoffrey”

I like to screw with Geoffrey. He likes me and I don’t know why. Maybe because I screw with him while the others simply whisper about him behind his back. Geoffrey likes his space. Don’t enter his bubble. He needs several feet around him at all times. If you pass him in the hallway, he will flatten his 5’6” buck forty-five frame against the wall until you pass. Don’t touch him either. Geoffrey doesn’t like to be touched.

Rain or shine, sleet or…well, it doesn’t get any colder than sleet around here…Geoffrey wears the same style white button up, short sleeved shirt with a navy tie and black slacks. Every. Damn. Day. He also has an overactive olfactory gland that is too easily stimulated; therefore nobody around him can wear perfume or cologne. One time the receptionist lit a candle at Christmas. She got a note. Don’t touch his stuff either. A rookie drank Geoffrey’s special caffeine-free diet Dr. Pepper. Infidel! Here’s your note.

So, back to my point, I grab a prospectus from my drawer and walk it down to him. “Hey Geoff!” I walk around his desk to stand right beside him. “Here’s that prospectus. I brought you two. Does that make it prospecti?”

“Um, Geoffrey. Thank you, Jay. No, it doesn’t. But, thank you.”

I sit on the corner of his desk and make myself comfortable, arms crossed over my chest. “How’s it stand with that MAC account you were working on? Did you get it converted before the end of the month?”

Geoffrey nervously slides all of his papers toward the center of the desk, far away from my ass and whatever monkeys might be hiding within. “I think, um, yes, I think so. Yes. Thanks for the prospectuses, Jay.”

I cough. Oh shit, he fucking wigged out! Germs! GERMS! He rolled his chair as far against the side of the L-shaped desk as he could. I saw him glance beside his monitor, a can of Country Fresh Lysol begging to be sprayed. “Good for you, Geoff! Bet it felt good to open that pay stub Friday.” He covertly covered his nose and mouth, as if in thought.

“Um, Geoffrey. Yes, good pay day.”

When I placed my germ laiden hand on his shoulder he melted away like butter beneath a hot knife.

“Well all right, man.” I could see the immense relief on his face when I stood to leave.

“Thank you for the, um, prospectuses, Jay.”

“Any time, Geoffrey.” I winked and for the first time during our chat, he smiled.

As I headed back to my office I heard the hiss of a Lysol can behind me.

Monday, August 02, 2004

Wheezing little bitch

You may not know this, but I’ve got some displaced machismo in me. Oh yes, my friend, it’s there. Not in the form of beating my women into submission, but in being The Man athletically. I don’t dare compare myself with the Lance Armstrongs of the world, but if a friend says to me, “Wanna race?” well then, by God, bring it on, beeyotch!

My running group is for those who have completed at least one marathon with an average time of between 8:00-9:00 minutes per mile. Last weekend a few newbies showed up which is normal the closer we get to a marathon date. This is my group. I don’t lead, but I’m Lead Dog, know what I mean? I don’t organize the shit, I just finish it with the best time. I always do. That’s just how it is. Sure, I could move up to the blue group and find myself more challenged, dragging my limp carcass in dead last every week, but who needs that shit weighing on their morale?

Last Saturday was Breck’s first day with us. First off, I have an issue with his sissy name, but that’s not for this post. Breck was built like a matchstick, or The Dave, take your pick. When the shout out was made I took my usual position at the back of the pack and fully expected to work my way to the front as usual, offering greetings to each of the runners as I smoked their snail asses. Only when I got to the front of the line, I found Breck. I blew it off and let him have it, not wanting to look like the asshole that I am trying kill us both to win a fucking warm-up. But the ribbing I got all week and again yesterday morning really got to me. “What’s the matter, Jay? That youngin’ whoop up on ya?” Fuck off, retard.

So yesterday morning I was hell-bent on redeeming myself. I showed up, took my medicine with a smile and friendly laugh, and made my mark. He was standing at the front, the twat, wearing red. Perfect. I won’t loose him in the crowd. When the shout was given we headed out. My original plan was to take it easy and let him burn himself out, but when I saw he had to be pushing into the 7 minute range I nearly shit a brick. Slow the fuck down!

I started trucking past the crowds, dropping my Hi there’s and How you doin’s? as I cruised by, my eye always on the mark. Breckwad was elbowing the leader and edging on by. I spent the better part of three miles trying to inconspicuously close the gap. I don’t think so, asslog. I’ll fucking kill us both before I put up with another week of that shit.

By mile 10 I was on his ass, brushing his heels. I’d been running at an 8 mph pace for miles already and I could feel the blood in my face and sweat running down my face and back and chest. Nobody could have looked at me and thought I was having an easy time of it but I’ll be damned if I let him know that. I eased up on his left and forced a casual, “How’s it going, man?” You fucking lab rat on crack.

“Hey. Jay, is it?”

I was puffing my chest out, trying to avoid the slumped over, old tired dude look. “Yep. And your name is…?” Dildo? Glory hound?


That’s right, the pussy name. We reached mile 12, only 1 mile to go. I stretched my stride, picking up a few seconds. He matched it. I quickened my pace, just a bit. He matched it. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and saw him do the same. We both looked straight ahead again, the silent gauntlet had been thrown! This time he moved ahead. I don’t think so, you fucking tuna troll. Big Jay ‘bout to break out the mojo on your skinny ass! I leaned in and pushed it out, stretching my stride as far as I could take it. He fell behind quick and I heard him pant to catch up. I could see our target site less than a quarter mile away. He reappeared beside me and for a moment I could see his wicked scapulas, not a pretty site. We became two idiotic children, all out sprinting after a 12 mile full-on run, elbow to elbow, grunting, grimacing, sweat flying in every direction, gravel crunching beneath our Mizunos. My legs ached, my lungs burned. I had to be running around 9.5 mph now, or a 6 minute mile. Go, fucker, don’t let that punkbitch show you up! Get your ass in gear, now! Go! Muscles I didn’t know I had burst into action at the last second. It came down to a toe, but holyshit, I did it! Take that, cod nibla! I touched down first on the paved parking lot of our destination site.

I cruised to a jog and circled back around to where Breck was hunched over with his hands on his knees, heaving for air. “Walk it out, man. Don’t stop. Keep moving until your rate comes back down.” He did as he was told while I headed off toward the cars. “I need to be somewhere, Breck. Can you let them know I left? Thanks, and good run. Let’s do it again next week.” He coughed and gasped and waved me on, the little pussy. I headed to my truck, climbed behind the steering wheel, and when I was sure nobody could see me I collapsed horizontally onto the front seat and wheezed like the little bitch that I am.