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  • This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...

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        Sunday, December 31, 2006

    I Hardly Know Where To Start...

    I think the wife is trying to kill me. I woke up just a bit ago (yes, folks, that would be 10am on a Sunday...I take that 'day of rest' shit seriously) and already I am drinking the lovely whiskey she bought me yesterday, and chasing it with a fine pale ale.

    The tard's family paid her after work yesterday, and she felt compelled to gift me with a lovely bottle of 12 year old Canadian Club Classic. It's the only thing the Canadians do right. We export our acid rain to them, they import their lovely smooth whiskeys to us. I prefer a blend of Canadian whiskey to all others.

    By the way, I do not say 'tard' to be cruel to them. It is what they are. Deal.

    So, I woke up with two things on my mind: The Veggie Tales song, and no, I don't want to fucking talk to any fucking tomatoes; and a powerful urge to fuck a legless woman. Now, I think I have established myself as a leg and ass man, but really, don't you think legs just get in the way? I mean, how many times have I been kneed or otherwise thwapped in the nuts by some thrashing woman in the throes of her own pleasure...well, if I had a dollar...

    And no, I don't have some sort of fetish. I'm just being practical. Okay, I like to do a little light spanking, now and then, and now you know a little more about the wife than perhaps you wanted to. I blame the whiskey I'm having for breakfast. On an empty stomach.

    But seriously, I woke up thinking that if the wife died, or got transported to Heaven in a flaming chariot drawn by cherubim, that I would like to take in a young, legless super-model, some unfortunate beauty who had had an unfortunate encounter with a train, or who had learnt her lesson about trying to give some Italian a BJ whilst he attempted to negotiate tricky turns in his Ferrari.

    Huh? You with me, here? I thought so. I mean sheared off clean, like a mannequin, just below the snatch. None of that drawn up sausage-end scarring for me, no-sir. I would love her, and nurture her, and occasionally flip her out of the wheelchair and shag the snot out of her. Then she'd go fetch me a beer from the fridge, her hands flap flap flapping across the floor, leaving a trail like a slug...

    Sorry, that's just the whiskey talking. I'd get her a skateboard, or a mechanic's creeper, though those are a bitch to steer in a straight line. And then there's the problem of reaching the fridge handle, let alone getting up to the beer-shelf, not to mention finding the bottle opener...

    Okay, okay, I'll admit it, this plan needs some more thought, but try to tell me that you wouldn't let a legless Miss USA 'sit on it and spin', and I will call you a big fat hairy liar, that's for sure.

    Now, aren't you glad you dropped by? So, if you'll excuse me, I am going to go find some 'exploited black teen' porn, and prime the pump, so to speak. I think the wife is in heat, so I need to do my Kegels, and prepare, as it were.

    Happy Sunday!


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