Yes, you, Nancy Drew. Nothing to see here, go on about your own beeswax. As for the rest of y'all...browse, partake, enjoy. Leave comments. Send hatemail. Avail yourselves of the various resources herein. Tip your waitress.
Or not. Whatever. As for Ms. Veronica Mars, I know you'll do the right thing and add to my AdSense cash moneys. Otherwise, you'll be supporting my goofy ass. And yes, I'll miss you when you're in Mexico. Even if you and your galpal won't mule me back some brown tar Heroin. Sigh. And here I thought you loved me. And yet, you don't even send me hatemail.
Yes, in retrospect, it likely wasn't the smartest decision to include a link to this nonsense on my Facebook page (simply search for Christian Manson, all friend requests accepted, as I need to up my totals to the numbers I have on MySpace; wherefore I'm, surprisingly enough, listed as Suavely Deranged). However, since she'd already cleverly deduced the link herein, Why Not?
And, why pray the fuck tell, do I keep ending up with Arabic ads? Fucking Google (shakes fist)!
So, it seems that the GF failed to learn her lesson previously and still occasionally finds her merry way to this little abomination that I call home. Which, would explain the previous rant somewhat. Despite warnings to the contrary, my boo continues to want to sleuth her way into my subconcious. Silly, silly woman.
Yeah, like there's any other flavors, chief. This ain't Baskin Robbins.
The upshot is that I will continue to ramble on about this, that and the other hereabouts and continue my look with impure thoughts but never touch approach to life. She, in turn, will snoop. We will be at odds 'til we even, to drop some Biggie Smalls on y'all. I'll grovel. Ish.
The makeup sex, however, will be spectacular. Almost as good as when someone fucks you like they hate you.
Speaking of which (this is what I like to laughingly refer to as stream of consciousness), I had to explain to my LJBF exactly what a hate (or spite, if you prefer) fuck actually is. It seems she was under the mistaken impression that giving up her recently divorced and sexually frustrated ass to an attractive and well built firefighter would qualify as the aforementioned grudge fuck.
Needless to say, I, as the final arbiter on all things unseemly (hey, I kinda like that, expect to see more of it) had to set her straight. So, for her and any of the rest of y'all: a hate fuck is when you hate yourself or somebody else so very very much that you pretty much nail anything that gets in your path. Sometimes everyfucking thing. A spite fuck is when your significant other cheats on you and you fuck their best friend and/or a close family member and/or an entire sports team. What? I can't have a life outside of this mess? This is simply my diary screaming out loud, to quote Ms. Nalick. Which reminds me, I still need to acquire her 2nd disc.
But I digress. Anyhoo, being the gentleman y'all know I can be, I'm serving as my LJBF's Designated Dialler and/or Sponsor whenever she gets liquored up and/or morose and wants to call up her latest unavailable Crush. That's simply how I roll.
Especially since I'm trying to turn her to the darkside. I think she'd make a good lesbian. Especially since she has a singleton galpal what looks like Briana Banks, but with smaller tits. And, it'd give me a chance to practice my powers of persuasion in order to procure pictures, which I would then share with y'all on My Humble Little Photoblog.
And I'm somewhat dismayed that when she replied Holy Shit! (to drop some religious content on y'all fucking heathens) to my comment that said Briana Banks-looking chick was cute, but needed to work on her anal (what? we can't always discuss literature, politics and why Britney Spears can't just settle down and be a good girl); and I responded with the ever-popular Well Played, Old Bean...she didn't get it. I know y'all will, though. Sound it out, I'll wait.
I woke up at 0130 today after crashing just before 2200, and I'm somewhat less than thrilled about it. Especially since I didn't have to get up until roughly now, and I was awoken by the sound and feeling of my own deep and somewhat painful coughing. Ah, Good Times. Still feeling kinda blah, and mulling calling in sick to work tonight. However, with the boss on Vacation for 2 weeks and me the number 2 (yeah, I know, do with that as thou wilt), I likely won't. Sigh, it kinda sucks having a work ethic. And a conscience.
And, apparently, standards. Sigh. it's been a troubling weekend all around. Although I did discover me a painless route to the local Applebees (love me some Applebees, almost as much as IHOP-try the Ultimate Steak Omelette therein, excellent, and the portion size is such that I, who always orders 2 entrees, am content with the one; to drop a brief Zagat's Guide moment on y'all), so the glass wasn't totally Broken. Empty, yes, but that's damn near a foregone conclusion.
It was good to see Tampa Bay Rays Outfielder (and longtime fave) Rocco Baldelli return to The Show yesterday. It's been too long. And yes, when I finally get that porn star gig I've been pining for all these years, my handle will TOTALLY be Rocco Baldelli.
And let the lawsuits fall wherefore they may.
Speaking of pornstars, as I occasionally do (why, yes, that would be sarcasm; pornstars are my raison d'etre)...does anybody else miss the days when ECW was really Extreme? When the lovely and oh-so-talented Jasmine St. Claire (yeah, I've likely misspelled it, but a rose by any other name and all that jive) was on the roster? When Billy Corgan and Fred Durst amongst others would stop by and take a guitar shot? When Taz really was the Human Suplex Machine? When Hardcore (sorry, need the traffic) really was? When the crimson mask was not only a common occurrence, but a part of damn near everybody's ring attire? The Sandman's ring entrance? The Gore? The REAL Van Daminator? The majority of the matches taking place in the crowd? The ECF'nW T-shirts (must check Ebay)?
I know I do. Curse you Vince McMahon (shakes fist)! May your stock drop 20 points today.
So I was watching Rush Hour 3 yesterday (love me some Jackie Chan, but who don't really?), one of those flicks that you watch when it's on the movie channels, but don't waste your cash moneys clocking in the local megaplex; and I've decided that when I finally land me an amiable, comic relief-type sidekick, I want him (or her) to be just like Chris Tucker.
What? You're entitled to YOUR goals and aspirations, let me have mine, you selfish bastards.
And, whilst watching Hannah Montana at 0200 (love love LOVE me some Family/Disney Channel, as it totally enables my look but don't touch mindset), I re-examined my beliefs and yes, Emily Osment is still going to turn out hotter than Miley Cyrus. And I still miss Billy Ray's mullet. Maybe I'll trim my back hair into a mullet today, as I have about 6 hours before Sleepytime.