Friday Thoughts
As I gaze at Marissa Miller, Sports Illustrated model and wife of a cactus douche, party with a Hippie Scrote, I reflect on the week.
The hott. The choads. The collective Jungian unconscious that shrieks in primal horror at tight Armani-Exchanges of our souls.
I gaze out my window at the hazy airplanes cutting through the Los Angeles smog in the distance. I find my slightly befuddled thoughts drifting back. High school. Yael.
Dark hair, exotic, tiny, with perky boobies and glasses. She was the female Clark Kent of sexy bouncy boobie hott. Nerdy by day. Sex kitten superhero by night.
In a red cape, boots and lace garters with superpowers. Or at least that’s how I imagined it, sitting behind her in math class.
Then on Senior Skip Day, I finally approached her at my friend Kevin’s beer party. She flirted back. We made small talk. I stared at her boobs while she was refilling the ubiquitous red cup at the keg.
And then she left with Sean. Greased up fifth year senior Sean, who was suspended for hitting another kid in the head with a hockey stick. Uberdouche Sean, who spit when he talked, and smelled like onions.
This PBR is for you, Sean.
Somewhere out there, you’re still a douche. And someday I’ll find your picture. And mock you in pixelated form on this site.
But until then, I’ll dream of Yael. And stare at Marissa Miller’s boobs.
