Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Morty Largeman Wishes He Didn't Bring Manuel to the Party
Now Manuel is all over his longtime secret crush from accounting, Claire.
Morty can only sigh. And consider shaving his beard.
Claire has the elfin looks and alabaster skin of the lost Henry James novel, “Fondling of the Upper Class.”
Seeking to escape Spain’s crushing 25% unemployment and continued EU policy fuck-ups, Manuel’s decision to spend his last 20 Euro on an oversize watch and hair gel to become a full-time douchebag is paying off.
Schlomo Largeman does not regret rubbing his throbbing zipper across Claire’s ass cheeks as he brushes by this scene
Morty Smugman still wets the bed.
Sasha Grey’s untainted hometown little sister goes in to my own personal HOH.
Oh wait… Morty is tainting her… Fffffucck you, Morty.
Claire from accounting is the kind of girl Morty dreams about, and not in a nasty way.
Claire’s girl-next-door looks make him dream of apple pies baking on a window sill whilst warm spring winds fan the odors through the yard. He’d come home from a day fishing at the creek with his sons, Johnny and Joey, and give her a kiss on the cheek, then sit down to a wonderful home cooked meal
It’d be a storybook romance, and after the perfect dinner he’ll tell the kids about how he worked up the courage to ask her out. She’d blush and tell the kids how he was so nervous and cute, and she said yes because she felt a little sorry for him but was also flattered, and how Morty fumbled through dinner. Somehow, against all odds, they fell in love by the time the dessert came — a single, large milkshake that they shared through two straws.
Then they’d put the kids to bed, and retire to their own bedroom for a bit of cuddling and smooching before drifting off into blissful marital slumber.
Meanwhile, what Morty doesn’t know, is that Claire from Accounting is just like at least half of all 24-year-old single women. She won’t bang anything that moves — hell, she won’t give Morty the time of day, no matter how many times he walks past her desk and looks at her from the corner of his eye, or playfully steals candy from her dish — but she’ll sure chase after any good-looking guy she comes across.
Like Manuel here.
She met Manuel about 30 minutes ago, and she’s already considering letting him fuck her in the bathroom. If he buys her one more margarita, it might be in the ass. Unless Manuel turns out to be gay, there’s absolutely, positively no way this night is ending without a dick ending up inside her. Perhaps even more than one, in more than one orifice.
And Morty? Poor Morty.
He’s been stalking after Claire for at least six months, ever since the HR rep introduced her to everyone around the office and they exchanged a shy hello and a soft smile. He’d sometimes work an extra hour just to walk through accounting and smell her sweet perfume … on the sweater she left on her chair.
He wandered out to the club in hopes of meeting someone, but knowing he probably wouldn’t. He never met anyone. But lo and behold, sweet fate! Claire! What is SHE doing here!? It’s destiny!
It took Morty an hour and a half to work up the courage to venture within 10 feet of Claire. It took another 30 minutes of awkward stammers and one-sided conversation to sidle up and ask if he could buy her a drink.
She said, “Sure, whatever,” while absent-mindedly texting someone, but it was a step in the right direction. His foot was in the door!
This was his chance, at long last.
He told her he’d be right back. Then the bartender was waiting on someone else. A greasy-looking hispanic guy. And before Morty could get his attention, the bartender took another drink order from a drunk woman — three complicated mixed drinks that took 10 minutes to make.
Morty could feel time slipping away. He finally got his drinks and frantically searched the club for Claire. There she was … with the greasy-looking hispanic guy from the bar.
Claire was already staring deep into his eyes and feigning interest in his conversation. It was over. Morty had blown it, without even getting a chance to properly blow it.
Morty found a quiet seat at the end of the bar and sat down, two Mojitos in front of him. He quickly downed the first one, then sipped on the second for about 35 minutes. The whole while, he watched Claire and Manuel on the dance floor. She backed her ass up into his groin, stuck her tongue down his throat and wrapped herself around his body. She guided Manuel’s hands around her hips and onto the underside of her breasts.
Later, she left the club with Manuel, headed to parts unknown.
Morty tried not to think about it, tried to think he still had a shot, but deep down he knew she was getting her brains screwed out by the man the women in his hometown of Monterrey called “Burrito Grande.”
Morty left the club about two hours later. He thought about the night, thought about Claire, thought about his missed opportunity and how she was now naked in another man’s bed.
That final thought intrigued him. He turned off the TV and masturbated.
Maybe he wouldn’t have warm apple pies and sweet marital smooches, but in the right situation he might be able to have drunken Claire, an awkward handjob and weeks of even more awkward glances as they passed each other in the parking lot.
As he drifted off to sleep, he thought, “It’ll have to do. It’ll have to do.”
Claire is a sweetie pie. I’d fill her taco with enough baby batter that she could grease her pancakes for a year. I have no idea what that means.
Excellent analysis, Morbo! You nailed it.
yup, Claire blows the valet for free parking…& that’s just tha beginning
I agree with Bro Brogan. And by agree with Bro Brogan I mean I just ejaculated all over my sweatsuit thanks to demure, untainted Claire.
Morty has two choices: he can either shave the stoopid beard and finally have a snowball’s chance of actually scoring some tail; or he can gain about 30 more pounds, grow a gnarlier beard and go to Afghanistan to be a civilian contractor with DynCorps, fixing broken generators and malfunctioning septic tanks in Kandahar.
Chris, what are the bleeths like in Kandahar?
D. Wallnuts: They look like a combination of a hogs from a minimum security women’s prison break, the worst of what everyone imagines women in West Virginia look like, and an occasional 4 -5, who in Afgh pegs a 10 plus. Slim pickins’ my friend. It’s why God created out of country leave.