Since I was going to be in Florida vacaying with a visit to my parents, I figured I might as well mix in something “productive” in my week of feeding, beaching and shuffleboarding. I am from New York City, after all, and unless we are constantly running around trying to accomplish something earth-shattering, like beating the crosswalk light or getting downtown before rush hour or finding a seat on the subway, preferably next to someone who is not homeless and smelly—or black—we really can’t enjoy getting across the street or going downtown or our subway seat. So how could I enjoy lazing around all day on the beach in Florida when I just left a city where I laze around my apartment all day? The contrast would be just too much for anyone!
I’m reminded of a sound machine I once picked up from the now defunct Sharper Image. By “picked up,” I mean put into my bag and walked out of the store without making the customary pit stop at the cash register. A sound machine is used to set the ambient noise in the room to something such as “Stream” or “Rain” or “Birds,” generally with the idea of making the environment a little more relaxing.
On my machine, there were a couple of sound choices that seemed a little bizarre to me. One was “Traffic,” which had a noisy street with cars honking. I thought to myself that if someone is that freaked out by the quiet of the country on their weekend away from their metropolis, that a sound machine was not even going to scratch the surface of their issues. The other was “Mountain Goat” for the Middle-Eastern man who misses fucking his herd.
I had met Yogini Pea at the Raw Spirit Festival in D.C. During one of my teachings, she was the festival whore who was assigned to my tent. Much like a fluffer in the porn industry, she was designed to keep me excited so that I could perform when the cameras were rolling. I just had a flashback to a time on the set when I was preparing to fuck two girls and a mule and my fluffer’s hands were so dry and calloused that by the time I got to the mule the best I could do was hee-haw. [Note to Self: Stop taking acid—these flashbacks are best to remain “un-flashed.”]
Yogini Pea was a doll and as far as dolls are concerned, she was one of those $10,000 ones that feel life-like and doesn’t have a mouth that just stays open 24/7 waiting for your dick, which becomes a bit of a drag when you try and kiss it or feed her a glass of wine. Yogini Pea would get me water, move blankets on the floor—even bark like a rhinoceros if I asked. And I did. And, let’s just say, she wasn’t the only one who became “horny” (rhinoceros, get it?)
After the presentation, she smiled at me and I was like, “Here we go again. Use one of the dirty towels from my laundry bag. There’s money on the counter. Take enough for cab fair and a cheap tip.” That was the last I heard from Yogini Pea, that is, until she joined my un-blog.
We started having a few emails back and forth and eventually even stepped it up to Instant Messaging, probably not waiting the requisite ten days before doing so. We talked a little philosophy and joked around. I was often pretty harsh with her but she took everything I threw at her in stride; I wish that bitch that I threw the tire iron at had a similar stride. And we flirted.
She had told me that she voted for a friend of hers on some faggy site for “Sexiest Female Vegan” and was looking for my swami ass to vote for me in the male category, as they didn’t have a category for mules. I took that as her saying she wanted to fuck me. But I don’t like to beat around the bush, especially if the bush is one of those 70s porn ones which are large and unruly and run from the belly button to the mid-inner thigh. So I asked. I didn’t actually ask, I stated. “You want to fuck me.”
As a member of the Women’s Union, she had to follow Rule #1 which is: Always pretend that you’re not a whore, even though you are one. So she followed rule one in a half-assed way, by saying that she doesn’t let just anyone plow her giny, but soon after followed with, “But I would like you to irrigate my field,” a statement which, had this gone to arbitration, would have most probably lost her membership in the Women’s Union. As she lacks a dick, the Men’s Union wouldn’t accept her as a member, well, unless she sucked good dick; that’s how I got in. Rumor has it that even the Mules’ Union is a bitch to get into these days.
I was lucky, I got into it when the only requirement was a 14” or greater cock. The first few weeks of being called, “Little Pecker” did hurt but not as much as the Initiation Gang Bang—but I much rather talk about my short-lived porn career than taking it in the ass by over 50 mules. I mean, to even think about even mentioning how I had to hold onto the metal bar that was bolted into the wall and fight losing consciousness as one after the other pounded me like I was a heifer and they were making chopped meat…I just can’t do it. I suppose the one benefit was to forever after be able to fart without making a noise, but really, I don’t want to discuss it further. All these years later and mule hair still shows up in my feces.
Soon I stopped the flirting. I was still planning to fuck her when I got there but I didn’t want her to do what all my online bitches seem to do, fall in love with me. It’s not that I was worried about her feelings and getting hurt. You see, once a woman knows you’re into the puss, she starts treating it like a stock, making splits and double-downs and all this crap that requires you to buy more and more just to make it equal in value to when you first fucked it. And the one thing that I retained after extricating myself from the Jew cult is cheapness; I just don’t like having to send chocolates and flowers in order for a woman to spread her legs.
As I’m into full disclosure, unless it involves taking a full body scan at the airport where some TSA pervs sit in another room and wack-off to your nude picture, not caring in the least about the cancer that is now stirred up from the radiation you were subjected to and now ready to go on a feeding frenzy inside your body, I told my newfound love, Ninja, everything that was going down. Ninja told me that I could do anything that I wanted to do! I was like, “Awesome! You’re the best girlfriend a guy could ever ask for.” And I meant it—until she qualified her statement and I realized that she was just another keeper of the balls-in-the-jar.
“But if you sample any of that tuna, my fish market is closed for business.” I think she meant for my shopping pleasure and not that she would join a nunnery. I’ve turned a few guys I’ve fucked gay but never sent anyone to the churchery, unless they asked me where they could get their dick sucked by an old perv wearing a dress.
You see, when I met Ninja and all bets were off the table. I mean, I still had a few side bets beneath the table that I could get some “p” if I had wanted to but I soon found out from Ninja that the only “p” I would be allowed to get from Yoga C was of the urine variety and if she saw any on the table, her “p” was going to be taken off the table. I got a little confused with all this “table talk” but I took it to mean, “If you get any, you ain’t getting any.”
That’s the same fake “free will” that the God-fearing seem to believe in, that we have the free will to choose whatever we want to do but if we step slightly off the line, we’ll find ourselves handcuffed in the back of God’s squad car and heading on a fast track to a sentence of life in Hell, our cellmate being fire and brimstone.
“Son, it’s your fifteenth birthday. You can order whatever you want from the menu.”
“I’ll have the Surf & Turf.” WACK was the sound that the father’s slap made against the boy’s cheek. “What the hell? I thought you said I can order anything I want?”
“You can. And if you order anything above $9.99, I can slap you across your fuckin’ spoiled brat face.”
Just an afterthought, I could almost accept “God” giving us free will and then whining like a little bitch if we don’t dot our “I’s” and cross our “T’s” just right—because he is a little bitch. But why would he send us over to Satan’s lair, and by this I don’t mean the Time-Warner complex in Columbus Circle, the very angel that millennia ago told God to go fuck himself and left with about a third of the angels? I dig Satan for having the balls to stick it to the man and not sit around like the other pussies and accept a lame life of flapping your wings and playing the harp as the best possible eternity.
Here’s a little thought experiment for you retards who believe in Heaven: take one week to do nothing but your most favorite thing. If you like watching television—all you do is sit in front of the T.V. for the week. If you like eating—all you do is stuff yourself, how about with nothing but your favorite meal. If you like sex—fuck fuck and away in your beautiful balloon. And if after a week of indulging in nothing but your ego’s personal heaven you think, “That was the best week ever! I would like to continue this for eternity!” then you are probably one of those World of Warcraft losers who sits playing that game for 15-hours a day while getting fatter and more pimply and slowly fossilized to your seat.
Yogini Pea and I had arranged for me to teach while I was in Florida. Well, the decision was made but the arrangements were still in the ethers. Finally I pissed Yogini Pea off like a forgotten condom during the morning piss.
She was giving me choices of where to hold the class. “We can do it at this indoor studio where I teach out of…or this outdoor one with a Mexican piñata feel to it…or on the beach…” I couldn’t give a shit and I told her so. “I don’t give a shit.” I think Yogini Pea found this a bit dismissive of all the work she had put in to make this happen, not to mention it probably dented the halo she had put up over my head thinking me some type of god when I don’t even believe in one, and she wrote me an email that said as much. Well, I’m guessing it said as much, as it was long and I wasn’t really in the mood to read it at the time—or ever—and so I just hit delete.
I also said that I wanted to hold the class “By Donation” and when I found out that her yoga studio wanted to take a third of the action I found myself annoyed. I wasn’t doing this for money and these little Florida bitches should be stoked that Swami X would even stop in their rinky-dink town, let alone their prissy little studio to teach and now everyone seemed to want a piece of me. All of a sudden it was the Mules Union all over again but this time I didn’t feel like bending over.
I was probably the bitch in this case. The studio owner does need to pay her rent and if I looked at it as if we were supporting each other instead of her being a cheap, conniving Jew hoarding her bag of gold, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to set up The Fourth Reich. So I called up Yogini Pea and somewhat apologized. “Look, you’re probably on your period now and that is why you are acting like such a nutcase. I forgive you. Let’s move on.”
The teaching went over well. I had a good time. Everyone there seemed to have a good time. Even the owner of the studio participated and seemed nice enough—although when I slapped her ass and said, “Getting a little saggy down below, toots,” she didn’t drop to her knees and suck me off like I had expected.
Speaking of “sucking me off,” as a guy who keeps a picture of Bill Clinton up on his wall, I was able to utilize an essential piece of Wild Bill’s philosophy to my advantage while down in Florida. I admire Bill Clinton. It’s not because of his elitist New World Order Scum agenda. Nor is it his raping of women and having people who cross him killed for which I have an affinity. What I admire about him was his ability to declare that a blowjob is not sex and to thus instantly elevate himself to the status of “Saint” in the Cheater’s Bible. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YSDAXGXGiEw]
“I did not have sexual relations with that woman.”
“I’m sorry,” said prosecutor Kenneth Starr, in a case that the government allotted $40 million for investigating if the President got a hummer as opposed to the $14 million it did in looking to uncover the real killers behind the 9/11 murders—which was as ridiculous as O.J. offering a reward if the killer of Nicole Brown was “found,” as after stacking the totally dependent 9/11 Commission, they, too, didn’t fear that their investigation would conclude, “Oh look, we’re the killers!”—“Did she put your dick in her mouth?”
“Yes she did,” answered Clinton.
“And did she move her head up and down the shaft of your cock?” Starr pressed.
“She mostly worked the head—“
“Please answer the question as asked!” snapped Starr.
“Yes, she moved her head up and down the shaft of my cock,” acquiesced Clinton.
“And did you blow your load in her mouth?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then HOW did your cum get on her blue dress?” turning to Monica Lewinsky and adding, “Which was a lovely dress, I would like to say; I wouldn’t mind spilling my own milkshake on it, if you know what I mean.”
“Let’s just say, while she had good ‘ball control,’ she ‘dribbled’ a little too much,” stated Clinton, setting the record straight once and for all.
“I’m sorry, I am not very good with sports analogies,” confided Starr.
“I came in her mouth but she gagged and drooled it on her dress,” said Clinton.
“Ah, now I see. I don’t know what it is, something about sports. You see, I was never that good in sports growing up and so I didn’t really participate much. I was more of a mathlete myself,” added Starr boastfully.
“I’m sure you got a lot of action from that endeavor,” laughed Clinton.
“Not a lot but, unlike you, I didn’t fuck fat pigs,” turning to Monica Lewinsky,” Who happen to have great taste in dresses.” At this Ken Starr turned from the witness stand and declared, “Okay, the prosecution concludes that he didn’t have sex with that woman and is dropping all charges. Another case of taxpayer money well spent.”
And men across the nation cheered the decision, opening them up to getting sucked off by a multitude of women other than their wives and girlfriends and take what now became known as “The Clinton Defense.”
