Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Wrong Drink Roofied, Rufus?
Rufus ain’t feelin’ so good…things are getting a little hazy…wait, is this HER appletini?
Oh no…not again…
*thump*….zzzzzzzzz
Let me be the first to say it: tranny.
If ever…in the history of the world….two people deserved each other….it is these two.
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.Thorsten Veblen
Her left arm is so skinny, she uses it as a toothpick.
Her left arm is so skinny, he uses it to chop the crystal meth.
Looks like Jerry Hall in that old Batman movie after Jack Nicholson disfigures her.
I wonder what she looks like under the mask.
Her left arm is so skinny, he doesn’t feel it when she fists him.
That jacket would have looked totally gey if he hadn’t torn the arms off. Good fashion sense, that.
Her left arm is so skinny, she mutilates her va-jay-jay when she masturbates.
Her left arm is so skinny she uses it to scoop food out of her stomach when she purges.
Her left arm is so skinny she strokes cock on the inside.
Starz Network has a new series coming out originally called, “The Doucheywallnuts Chronicles” but had to change the name to “Magic City” due to snapped kneecaps, cigarette burned eyelids and ass punches:
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Her left arm is so skinny it’s jealous of Bethany Hamilton’s left arm.
Her left arm is so skinny Dark Sock uses it to clean horse turds out of his urethra.
Her left arm is so skinny she keeps it warm in her eyebrows.
I could learn to get a boner for tits on a stick.
A. Save her from him? B. Save him from her? or C. Save us from them? I’ve always liked liked the letter C. Except when it comes after Hepatitis or when I have to figure out if I should follow it with an I or and E.
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Spelling B’s
c definitely c and don’t worry the found a cure for hepatitis, ironical by the same fellow who discovered it.
over/under 3 total STIs?
Also let me be the first to say totes tranny. Because I’m probably the only one here who can pull off saying totes without looking like a complete and totes jackass.
That Magic City trailer looks like it will be a hit, and by hit I mean it has bare titties and ass, so guys will watch it.
Rufus has the Mayan Eye of Sleepy Night Shift Janitor
@MPI, Bare Titties and Ass? Isn’t that the name of the new Van Halen album?
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Puppets
I see Jenny McCarthy is sucking down for Sectionals…
It looks like evil scientists have grafted the head of a Real Housewife of NJ on the the body of a succulent 18 year old. It’s a travesty, I say. If you have the head off of one of those NJ sleestaks… stop the experiment right there.
That bitch reminds me of the last time I went to a strip club in Springfield, OR. If y’all haven’t had the pleasure, I’d recommend swinging through that tumor on the ass of Eugene of a town. It’s entirely populated by meth heads and University of Oregon students who can’t afford to pay the rent to live closer to campus in Eugene. It’s as though Metallica played a concert in a field back in the mid eighties, and everyone left behind in their drug addled and hungover state the next morning was like, “whoa, Metallica’s gone man. Well what do we do now?”
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“I know, let’s build a town right here, with lots of cheap apartment housing, piss colored street lamps, and a strip club on every block downtown. We’ll call it…I don’t know, Springfield, or something.”
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Anyway, this particular strip club – Phil’s Clubhouse was the name, whoever Phil was – was recommended by a friend of mine who lived in the area and said he knew the DJ. Well, I made the mistake of actually visiting this windowless establishment downtown, tucked between a taco shop and a used car dealership. The place stank of cigarettes, beer sweat, yeast, and that perplexing odor similar to sour milk that you first experienced as a child when spending the night at one of your poor friends place in the trailer park where for dinner you had frozen peas, a slab of dried out pork chop, and a slice of white bread. Though even upon entering a room with that smell and the scattered crowd of inebreated sanitation workers cocking their heads to getter a better view up some girl’s cooch, the smokey haze of the room with overuse of black lighting and the thumping away of Ester Dean “Drop it Low”, was oddly comforting. That, and I’m a depraved old bastard who often enjoys immersing myself in the filthier aspects of human endeavor, so I decided to stay.
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Gotta say though, the bitches were U-GLY. Those that weren’t bony and anemic covered with meth acne, had no abdominal structure left whatsoever after their umpteenth pregnancy and subsequent late term abortion. One girl had a stomach that resembled a soufflé that collapsed in on itself after being prodded too much while still in the oven…which, is actually how her stomach probably got that way ironically enough. I spent the whole time at the bar (or at least, they called it a bar).
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After a while the “hottest” girl there, who looked much like scrawny blonde ho in photo above, approached me and offered a “sample”. I’ve been to a lot of clubs all over this fine nation, but I’d never heard of this. I later learned that in Oregon they refer to this as taxi service. I asked, pensively, “how much?” “However much you want, hon, but usually it’s a dollar for a quickie.” A dollar? Hell, might as well give her double that and see what happens. She proceeded to grind her scantily clad, bony ass into my groin like she had the worst ass itch imaginable and my pants were made of sandpaper. Despite the awkwardness of the moment, and her mostly unappealing skin and bones structure – maybe it was the seventh glass of Bud Light, which is all they had on tap other than PBR – but I detected a definite redirection of blood flow in a certain appendage we shan’t mention at this juncture. Strippers must have a sixth sense for such moments of distracted states, cuz she honed in on mine and heavily whispered in my ear, “wanna have some fun, privately?” I hesitated, which she picked up on and immediately followed with “you’re really cute, so we can go $10 a song.” Then she giggled “just don’t tell the owner”.
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Normally I have a strong constitution in such matters and can see right through bullshit lines like that. I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, and have had my fair experience with strippers, on and off the job; so normally I’d just respond with a gentlemanly “thank you no, maybe some other time.” But for some reason my naivety was on par with a college turd being dragged to the strip club closest to campus by friends for his 21st birthday. I agreed to be led back to the VIP room, my wallet filled with $1 bills in tow.
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Now I’ve had a few private dances from a few ladies in the entertainment industry before, in varying states. First off let me start off by mentioning that in Oregon the law is only a little more conservative that Nevada, in that total nudity is fine, though touching of uncovered breasts and mid-region are discouraged, which isn’t to say it doesn’t happen all the time. But Oregon girls are cheaper than Nevada girls, so if any of y’all happen to pass through our fine city of Portland, do take the time to stop by a couple of the fine gentleman clubs we have to offer. But never has a girl gone straight to the dirty this fast. They usually work up to it, snaking their body around in front of you while discarding undergarments one by one, before finally rubbing all over you (package excluded). Before my ass settled in that worn out sofa with no legs, she was down to only the stripper pumps and straddling me with those itty bitty titties jammed in my face, and the we weren’t even through the intro of the first song, which was something off of David Bowie’s “Low”, adding a surreal edge to the moment. Then I got a dry humping the likes of which I haven’t experienced since high school. It was an aggressive, momentous dry humping, and all I could do was sit there and get harder. When the song ended, she didn’t stop. Just paused and said “one more song?”
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“If you keep grinding away like a bitch in heat like that then sure, I’ll spot you a Jackson for that” I responded. Foolish me. She continued to slide her shaven mound up and down my clothed, though now fully hardened meat grinder. Then she shoved a teat in front of my mouth and said “bite it”. I opened my craw, but hesitated. “Bite it!” she insisted. I chomped down, rolling her pierced nip back and forth between my teeth, eliciting an unrehearsed moan from her thin lips. I peered around the room, half expecting to see a bouncer rise from a bench in the corner to walk over and lift me up by my arm and chuck me out the door, but the room was empty. We were completely alone.
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I didn’t know where this was going, and I really didn’t care to think about it, until she unbuttoned and began unzipping my pants. It almost happened too quick for me to do anything about – and do be honest, I wasn’t in much of a resiting mood – but she had her hand down my boxers, wrapped around my John Thomas, and started jacking away right there in the VIP lounge. She was good at giving an old fashioned, almost TOO good. Without thinking, I put a hand on her ass. Then I remembered the holy “no touching” rule that I had up until that point always respected, but she didn’t stop. Her hand motions up and down my swollen ham fister quickened and became more deliberate. Obviously feeling adventurous, I starting rubbing that boney ass in a circular fashion, which each revolution spiraling closer to betwixt her legs. Seeing as how all my preconceived notions of boundaries and stripper etiquette have been blown away, I may as well test where they really are. They were apparently a lot farther then I had even dreamt of, for soon I had the tip of my middle finger on the edge of the abyss. How far can I really go with this bitch? She promptly answered that question by rotating her hips into my hand and spreading her legs a little wider.
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Well, as long as she’s got her hand all up in my genitalia, I may as well be courteous and return the favor by sticking my middle finger in her twat. It was loose and sloppy. I don’t know if she was really that exited, that sort of girl, or if that was the coagulated jizz of a thousand patrons before me. But, I may as well finish the job as she seemed intent on doing as well. It wasn’t long before she evoked spitting gobs of prostate goo on my stomach, at which point I removed my sopping wet finger (hand by this point) from her clammy snatch. She procured out a paper towel, from I don’t know where, and cleaned up the mess on my stomach, even having the courtesy to zip and rebutton my pants for me. How sweet.
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I don’t know if was the post-orgasmic guilt, or my faltering blood alcohol level, but a strange clarity set in and I suddenly felt unnervingly dirty. I also realized we had been at it for four songs. Shit, forty bucks. I hadn’t planned on spending that much, but at least I had it, making me feel even more guilty. Without saying anything I fumbled for my wallet and handed her a twenty and a fist full of ones. She looked at it, then looked at me and with her face suddenly sullen snapped at me “that’s a hundred and fifty, hon”. What? I appreciate the special treatment and all, but what kind of rube does she take me for? Did she think I expelled my ability to add along with my seed? “That was four songs, and you said $10 per song” I replied. “I have another ten I can give you as a tip if you insist, but that’s all I have.” Without saying anything she looked over at the entryway to the room, and there was a very sketchy looking man standing there. At her glance, he walked over and asked her, while staring me down “Is there a problem here?” This guy wasn’t a bouncer. I remember seeing this guy sitting at the bar a few seats down from me earlier. He was having an argument with another one of the girls at the time, I assumed he was regular patron or boyfriend. WTF?
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“This guy owes me $150 and won’t pay up” she exclaimed with her hands on her still unclothed hips. He looked at me with a straight face and asked rhetorically “Is that right?”. Shit, he wasn’t a bouncer, a patron, or a boyfriend at all. I’ve been had. I need to pay up, and fast. “Look,” I said apologetically, “I only have fifty, but I can get the rest from the ATM”. They both followed me to the ATM, conveniently located next to the video poker machines, and stood right behind me as I ran my card. This guy might beat me down the moment I enter my PIN and just empty my accounts for all I know, but what choice do I have? What recourse do I have? Complain to the club owner? The cops? I was a fucking John, they would have no sympathy for a scum bucket like me.
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It was only the second time I used a strip club ATM, and those of you that have made that mistake before know why. $5 transaction fee? Getting robbed while I’m getting robbed, great. Fortunately the pimp and his bitch let me finish my transaction, hand over another five twenties, and be on my way. My bank account, kneecaps, but not my dignity, in tact. After that experience, I’ve never spent any time at a gentleman’s club without carefully eying each and everyone of the supposed patrons suspiciously, and every girl that works there with a hint of contempt.
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Fucking thieving Springfield whore. That’s definitely who this bitch reminds me off.
Jacques concise observations remind me exactly of my life except for words like
“trailer park”, cause it’s generally too cold to live in any trailer save the few around. But there’s some really demolished apartments and tenaments. The only other words I would change are boxed mashed potatoes for peas and fried bologna for pork chop. You grew up with the rich poor kids man! Is Portland as bad as Portlandia portrays it to be?
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And I also have two new fixations. One is to hammer-fuck Adele between the calves and shove my cock down her throught as she garlgles out some beautiful verse. The other is two get Katie Couric and Sarah Palin in an all nude oil wrestling match and the loser and winner get to fuck me at the same time. And by same time I mean stacked-up anal wars and scissoring. Dirty aging three-way lesbian-style match. Son.
I need to get my ass to Portland ASAP.
I could think of nothing more unusual than oiled up frottage between Courin and Palin. Frottage, I says.
Wife #1 once managed to jam the emergency brake on in her car.
It was the pre-cell phone era so she walked to the repair shop and asked for help. The guy “fixed” it, charged her $50.00 and she was able to drive home.
I asked her what he did and she said he just cut the brake cable.
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Moral of the story, just like Jacques’, it sucks to pay for something you could have done yourself.
Springfield: Bangkok of the Pacific Northwest… who knew? Except if that were Bangkok, there would probably be no more Jacques, just a dimly remembered cautionary tale that no one is sure really happened.
There must have been something wrong with that free bowl of soup he got with that hat. Oh yeah. She came with it.
@ Dude
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No way. Jacques would’ve found his way back to the U.S. In a container marked “Grade C panda meat”.
J.D.: Great story. As a former frequent patron of gentlemens clubs across our great land, I hung on every next work of your story like I was right there in the private dance room. I think its safe to say that most strippers aren’t the brightest bulbs, though they will all tell you how they are just working there while they go to college to finish their degree. They sure have mastered the skills of extracting the bills from our wallets.
Or Jacques may have returned sans one kidney with a bad case of jaundice
This is some HoH material.
Well pour some sugar on me. Who knew it was that easy to shake down a horny dude. In in the wrong business. No wait, I’m in the right business. I’m a hypochondriac and I’d prefer to just take your money without having to actually touch you.
Wow, it looks like her roots are darker than his.
If you’re going to spend that much on cosmetic alterations, at least start with the fivehead.
Rufus missed his chance at being a male model. But he still does get his fisting from boyfriends.
Thailand is different beast, and the even Vegas has NOTHING to compare with even the tamest coastal villages still recovering from the Tsunami of ’04. In fact of friend of mine was there that morning after Christmas in day in Phuket when it happened, would have been washed out to sea after sleeping on the beach if he wasn’t so wasted he passed out in the second story of a Discotheque. He awoke the next day to find buildings destroyed, coconuts everywhere, and people sobbing looking for lost loved ones. Barely distinguishable from any other morning after a night of heavy partying in that town.
well jaques.
150 plus fees for a hand-me-down, hell it could be worse, i mean you can get the same exact experience taking a broad to a billy joel concert, without all the sex stuff.
Rufus’ collar is popped.
Still instadouche signifier – I almost thought the style had faded but the true Douchebags rock that shit.
Son.
Her left arm is so skinny, she————yeah right, like I’m gonna try to follow Jacques’ post.