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  • Dive, Dive!



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

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        Sunday, September 23, 2007

    Dive, Dive!

    I got to thinking about muff diving, and I wondered why there weren't condiments provided for such an activity. And don't give me that fish crap. You've either never gobbled Lady Box, or your girlfriend has an infection. Rinse and spit.

    Chocolate sauce and the rest of that crap is just nasty, especially matted in hair pie. Looks like road kill, or she just expressed her anal glands during a diarrhea fit. Maybe sprinkles, like you get at Baskin Robbins? Festive, they melt away, and darn it, they taste good.

    No nuts, though. Any salty ones will make her clam sizzle like a salted snail on the sidewalk. And then there's the screaming.

    I was thinking of shooting Jello Shots up there with a turkey baster where you've cut off the tip, and left just the shaft of the tube, but then I got to thinking about how you'd look like a dropout from clown school after, and you just might give her OBGYN a heart attack.

    I don't like the ladies eating food or drink off my Love-stick, either. I had a chick bring out a bottle of Creme de Menthe and commence lovingly laving my privates with it. That's one scream they heard in space. Ow. To say my dick felt as if it was on fire, is to insult fire. And the piss I took later was nearly as bad as the one I took after another novice knob swallower took the word 'blowjob' seriously.

    She inflated my bladder like a cheap balloon. I could float around the bedroom, my head bouncing off the ceiling. And yes, there was screaming.

    Okay, I just lied, because I thought that would be funnier than what actually happened. We were at the drive-in movie theatre, and she fished out my trouser trout, and before I could scream "NOOOOOO!" she huffed in a big breath of good clean mountain air, and docked with my love-station, and blew like she was adrift at sea and had come across a deflated life raft.

    I nearly shit myself. And she'd hit her gag reflex, and puked up barbecue beef and pizza and warm Pabst beer and all the gum she'd ever swallowed directly into my lap, then bounced her head off the steering wheel while recoiling from my scream. Or maybe I bounced her head. I forget.

    I scooched over to the door, trying to keep the mess from spilling in the car, and made it. I was shaking puke and mucus off out onto the gravel, with my tallywhacker hanging out, and I looked up to see the car next to us was full of her girlfriends. Their expressions ranged from abject horror, to big grins. Thank God they didn't have cell phone cameras in those days. I'd have had to set their car on fire.

    I tucked my weiner in and staggered to the restroom, the movie playing in my hair, and people yelling at me to get out of the way. I got (mostly) cleaned up, and then went to the trough to take a piss. I stood there in agony, holding the pipes so hard I thought I'd crush them, shaking and shuddering as the air fought for supremacy with the urine to see who got out first. Some guy, probably a sailor, tsk'd at me and said "Got the clap, eh?" I could barely stand, let alone respond.

    I got back to my car, and she and her carload of girlfriends were gone. I was pissed, because I wanted her to suck the venom out.