Showing posts with label exploding can of nails. Show all posts
Showing posts with label exploding can of nails. Show all posts

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Blue Balls For Sale!

I remember the first time I went to a strip club. It was magical. I was mesmerized. Scantily clad, beautiful women were all over the place. And, they were friendly. The smell of sensual sugar filled the air. Over priced alcohol was within arms reach. The music sucked. Is it too much to ask for some rock and roll with the nudity? I mean real rock and roll, not some 80’s decalcification of ZZ Top. Yes, I get it. The girl’s got legs. I would certainly hope so. Otherwise the song would have been called She’s Got a Wheelchair. But, I’m ruining the strip club fantasy mood. Sorry.

Before long, one of the hot babes asked me if I would like a dance. Not knowing the nomenclature at the time I re-posed the question and asked her if she wanted to dance with me. A friend clued me in as to what she was proposing. I accepted her offer for a dance. She took me to a semi-private room where other women were writhing on other patrons. She sat me on a cushy couch and stood in front of me. I felt a little shy at first (after all, it had been a while since I attended an orgy) – until she started rhythmically rubbing on me to the beat of plastic thumping bile resounding in the background. I forgot about the other couples in the room and focused all of my attention on her, on her excessively made over eyes, on her glittery skin, on her tickling locks of hair on my face, on her compound bouquet of lavender and cigarettes, on her naked boobies. She moved me. She was selfless. Her only concern was my satisfaction. She let me know this when I tried to return the favor by touching her, too, and she drove her fake nails into my neck. I was falling in lust. My nether regions commandeered of all my senses as they prepared to go into action, especially after my siren took to the grinding. Right when I was about to pass the point of no return - she stopped. She stood and put her hand out. So, I shook it. She asked for twenty dollars. What!? Are we done? That’s it? Twenty dollars for what?

“Twenty dollars for the lap dance, sport.”

But I wasn’t done. I’ve got some unresolved issues here, honey!!!

“Plus tip.”

Dumbfounded with mouth agape, I gave her thirty dollars. She grabbed my hand, helped me up and walked me back to the bar area where my friends waited with despicable grins. Before we parted ways, I stopped her and asked her, “So, let me get this straight. I just paid you thirty bucks to give me blue balls?”

“I never thought of it that way. I guess you’re right. You’re so funny. Bye-bye, sweetie.”

I wondered what she would have done to me for a hundred bucks - tap dance on my crotch and jam her boa up my ass?

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

April Serious Day

Today is April Fool's Day. I've been a fool all my life, so today, I choose to be serious for a change. I'm going to watch CNN and read some medical journals. I will be concerned with the plights of my fellow human beings. This is very serious.

Oh, look, a can of nails on the floor. I better pick that up and put it away so nobody gets hurt.





AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!
AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHH!
AUGH!
AUGH!


IT'S AN EXPLODING CAN OF NAILS!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AND I FELL FOR IT!!!!!!!!
WHAT KIND OF FOOL AM I???????


Sing it with me, Frank...


What kind of fool am I, who never not picked up an exploding can of nails?
It seems that I'm the only who can hear my tortured wails.
What kind of man is this? An empty shell, a bloody face
In which an empty heart must pump blood out nail holes of disgrace?
What kind of lips are these that are ripped from my head?
That whispered empty words of seriousness that left me dripping bloody red ?
Why can't I have a nailless face like any other man?
And maybe then I'll know what kind of fool I am.
What kind of nails are these? What do I know of where they’ve been?
Why can't I go back in time and not pick up the can once again?
Why can't I stop the bleeding, my face is a raw, split-open and still on the pig ham.
And maybe I'll know what kind of fool I am.