Enough with jokes about dicks the size of tater tots! This is no laughing matter. For I have much to accomplish in the next year of my life. That’s right, my resolutions aren’t made artificially like the assholes that crowd the gym on January 3 (because they’re still too busy stuffing their faces with leftovers on the 2nd). No, my resolutions have to be bigger and better, because let’s face it I spend most of my time drunk, and I could really use the extra motivation. My annual resolutions go as follows:

1) After watching “The Blind Side” with Sandra Bullock, I was incredibly moved and inspired. This movie of course opened up my eyes and showed me that before this year comes to a screeching halt, I need to adopt a large black boy! Not just any old inner city child! No, he must be exceptionally good at a sport. A real sport, not like the type of shit they allow in the Winter Olympics. Curling? If my son ends up having that much enthusiasm for brooms, he better be Harry Fucking Potter. Anything winter-like other than my beloved hockey would be unacceptable. Although, since I’m really going for the full effect of the movie, I’d have to insist he play football.

Finding someone to adopt has been quite the challenge to say the least! Coming up to randomly large black men and telling them to get in my car because I want to take them home (Like Sandy did) seems to put me in an uncomfortable position. They think they’re getting laid, and I have to try and explain to them how that would be completely inappropriate now that I am their mother. That’s when the topic of breast feeding arises and I am forced to abort the mission. However, I haven’t given up. One day I won’t be forced to abort my large black boy and he will grow to make mama proud. Unless he turns into a real McNabb-type of asshole in which case I’d have to return him, because that’s just embarrassing.

2) I’d like to make enough money to start a new business venture. In addition to “The Cum N’ Go” (the Nations first chain of blow job drive thrus which I discussed at an earlier date) I’d also like to open up my very own Community College. After much thought about choosing a name, I have settled on one that portrays respect and prestige: Thunder Cock Community College aka: TCCCCCCCC. Here, students will master the art of being a functionally drunk retard, without having to be legally declared retarded. All my favorites will be teaching classes. Funbags, for example, will be the professor for the “Protective Services” course. Here she will instruct her students on how to protect and destroy with a pair of tits. Beer cans, small animals, and perpitrators will not be spared at the mercy of her nips. One can save a lot of money on security systems after passing this class. All you’ll need is an alarm going off through the house which asks the perp if he wants to be hit with “the left one or the right one” Perhaps both at the same time? Mastering that type of self defense will earn you a doctorate.

Other classes will include, Advanced Drinking, Dunk Texting, Effective Chub Chasing, and so on…

3) I resolve to be get implants. Simply because I’d like to enroll in Funbag’s class and become her star pupil

4) I’d like to make a grown man cry over something completely insignificant. For now I have my eyes on this big guy at the gym who’s constant intake of steroids and addiction to self tanner has him looking like he’s in a perpetual state of constipation. He’s about half my height, so I don’t find myself face to face with him often. But the one time when I was sitting and he proceeded to grunt something at me, I became fairly certain that I spotted a trace of mascara… and possibly some day old semen rimming his eyes. In his defense, I’m rather certain it’s his own semen. I’ve heard from other men that this douche bag has a tendency to prematurely ejaculate at his own reflection while “posing” in front of the locker room mirror. It must have been a sort of “jizz ricochet” incident.

I must say that usually these types of closet homosexuals don’t bother me in the least. Their roid rage, and ‘man cans’ easily amuse me for hours on end. But in the case of this particular super hero (Gym Super-Douche) I have to make an exception. Simply because he has this disillusion that every living, breathing human being wants to ride that 3 incher he has peeking out of his parachute sweat pants. This horrifying visual makes me want to force him face reality and cry like a little bitch…with sound. Some verbal abuse, and a dumbbell to the face should do the trick. I’ll tell you this much, if he takes one more prance through the gym in a pair of Ed Hardy, this resolution will be completed by the end of this month.

5) I have a bucket list of people I need to bone by the time I get married. “Kicking the bucket”, “tying the knot” it’s really all the same to me. For example 1) Someone famous… and so forth. That’s really the only one I have accomplished thus far so I need to get things moving. I’d list the rest of the people on the list, but I have a feeling that it would result in me getting chased down the street by someone on a lawnmower, toting a chloroform rag. And well, that particular fantasy never made the cut (along with angry pirates, and golden showers).

6) Caesar Milan’s show “The Dog Whisperer” makes me quite skeptical. Not necessarily of his ability to talk to dogs, but mostly his intentions behind it. Something tells me he has a lifetime supply of peanut butter stacked in his pantry. But speaking of balls. this year I plan on starring in my very own TV show: “The Genital Whisperer” Here I will speak to disobedient genitals and make them do shit. Like, taking out the trash and doing the laundry. Those who are particularly well endowed will be put in place of re-shingling my roof.

7) I’m starting a nationwide outcry against men that tediously wax their eyebrows (and do other such obnoxiously bitch-like things). The eyebrow waxing is what really does me in the most. It serves as a ‘gateway drug’ of sorts for other fairy like activities. These include shaving your legs, sporting a man-gina, and finally, sucking cock. And although I am a grooming enthusiast, I just don’t see why the eyebrows take a priority. Most recently I saw several pictures posted up by one of my least favorite Facebook friends, They mostly featured his thinly trimmed brows. I instantly thought to myself “Wow, on the bright side. if he waxes his eyebrows, that means he must head down south and wax other things as well… like his vagina.”

8) This year I plan on perfecting my retard accent. It’s gotten pretty good through the constant training with my mom’s navigation system in her car. The text to speech feature she has, results in an automated sounding voice with a sprinkle of Down’s Syndrome. I plan on escalating my skills until I am bona fide retard fluent! As fucked up as my goal may be, I must admit that it is not for the purposes of taunting, (Taunting is something i reserve for douche bags and fatties strictly) No, this is only because I’d like to use my new found skill in my future career… as a phone sex operator. Sort of like a sexy Rain Man type. Or in my case, Rain Woman. (please keep all ’squirting’ jokes to yourselves).

9) I have made the commitment to get ordained this year. Mostly because I get a kick out of being put in any position of slight power. And also because my friend Jane asked me to marry her to her fiance. I agreed to this because A) The idea of being a bridesmaid multiple times makes the idea of getting mounted by Dennis Rodman sound like a pleasure cruise in comparison. and B) Their wedding will be taking place in Las Vegas! This makes me even more excited because both the bachelor and bachelorette parties will be taking place there as well. And seeing as the last time Jane and I were in sin city. we were both hypnotized to have orgasms on stage in front of a large live audience, this time should be even better! A circus freak gang bang perhaps?

All I know is that once I am at the alter, I can’t wait to pronounce the following touching lines: “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to join Jane and uggh oh shit, where the fuck is Jane? And why do I have an anal bead, and half of a black dildo stashed in my bra? Umm I’m sorry does the mother of the bride by any chance know anything about the whereabouts of her daughter…or the other half of my dildo? No, not necessarily in that order”

10) None of the aforementioned resolutions can realistically get me any closer to being the dictator of the whole wide world within this next year. However, one last thing should work like a charm. All I have to do is overthrow Oprah and claim my throne. I’ve decided to lure her out of her spot of authority with a trail of corn dogs and ice cream. I’ll make sure the trail leads to a place no one will ever think to look for her…the gym. I’ll hide her in the back of the men’s locker room, where nothing surprises anyone anymore. Perhaps images of chubby old men toweling down their FUPAs will distract everyone else from the large black woman stuffing her face in the corner.

So that rounds out the highest points I’d like to hit in 2010. And I really do think it’ll be to the benefit of us all if I was maybe put in charge of the whole world. Although, I should probably just start with the country… first order of business is to make casual sex Fridays mandatory for every place of business. Your welcome for my caring America.

Women and men can be completely platonic best friends under one condition: If both parties share an unwavering preference for the cock.

That’s right the verdict is in, ladies and gentlemen, and I’m laying down the law Judge Judy style (because no one messes with that bitch). Women and men can absolutely NOT be just really good friends.

Ladies:

Ask any guy friend of yours what he thought of you upon first meeting you. I guarantee it was something like this:
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” (I wonder what she would look like while I do her doggy style?)

As harsh as the reality might seem to some of you, it’s the absolute truth. Men are very visual creatures whose innate goal in life is to bang every attractive-looking thing in sight. And even if mounting you isn’t in the forefront of their thoughts, it is certainly in the back of their heads at all times. Somewhere in between thoughts of cheese steaks and fantasy football.

The guy friend is optimistic that someday you will get drunk enough to actually let him see if his fantasy of slamming you against the head board is all he imagined it to be. Are you good in bed or do you make Paris Hilton look like she should win an AVN award by comparison? These are all pressing questions that most men ask themselves within the first 30 seconds of meeting you. Furthermore, your promises of being their bestest friend in the whole wide world is not enough to make them disregard the sexual curiosity which is consuming their head. I am of course always referring to the head that resides below the belt. Plain and simple, these men will trade being your BFF to see how you blow job skills measure up in a heartbeat.

So unless this male best friend of yours has a knack for bedazzling jeans, and shares similar boyfriend problems as you, then a friendship can simply not remain platonic. Attempts of impregnation will be made.

Men:

The ‘just friends’ zone is borderline pathetic. Either grow some balls and make a move, or go speak to someone who wouldn’t mind waking up next to your flatulent ass every morning. If the girl you are spending all of your time with is telling you about tampons and her guy problems, the future in this relationship is looking grim for you, pal. This woman is not attracted to you in the least. She would most likely choose getting humped by the neighbor’s Doberman over you any day.

So as painful as it may be for your testicles as first, I suggest cutting ties as soon as you realize you’ve been in the ‘friend zone’ a little too long. Then to soften the blow (or lack there of), go and invest in a nice clean hooker. If you pay her extra I’m sure she’ll even pretend to like you. Unless you’re the type to wear brightly colored Ed Hardy shirts, in which case no one will ever really like you

My gym time is probably the happiest hour of my day (refined Patron tastings and/or fucky fucky time excluded). I love to take an hour or so to myself to focus on burning off the calories that accumulate because of my drinking habits. That’s really the only goal of my hours battling the elliptical, because I’m not a health freak by any means. So during this ‘me time’ you can only imagine the disgust I feel once I am forced to come across the token ‘Gym Jackass.’ I am absolutely not referring to the many guys I end up speaking to at the gym which may be jacked, but still sweet as can be. No, we all know the token douche bag. Which no one really ever wants to talk to. The image of him in his stretched out Hulk Hogan wife-beater hits me harder than a pair of balls. However, upon further investigation, conducted by the pec machine, I’ve noticed that even these douche bags have sub divisions.

1) The first type of Gym Jackass was never the high-school jock who ‘tackled’ half of the cheerleading squad and possibly even the hot English teacher. Nope, back in high school this was the nerdy guy who spent his afternoons playing Dungeons and Dragons; and making fun of poorly written math problems. He was built like Mary Kate Olsen in his youth, and now he’s trying to show everyone that he can finally develop a muscle. Because he’s convinced that his graduating class all still really cares. (Note: I suspect that excessive muscle in this breed of douche is developed in compensation for the facial hair he is still unable to grow)

Unfortunately, however the douche’s geeky side is still very much alive. This Gym Jackass will try and impress you with his health-freak ways and offer up advice you never asked for. A year back or so, I was forced to sit through his impromptu seminar next to the exercise bike.

Douche : ” Yeah you know what I really recommend: I’ve been trying to eat every two hours now. Like a handful of almonds. You should look into trying that”

Me: “Yeah, you know the thing is, I’ve tried to do a mouthful of nuts every two hours before. It really didn’t do much to settle my appetite, but I did make lots of new friends.”

2) Secondly, we of course have the token dumb jock that never grew out of it. He thinks lifting hundreds of pounds can still compensate for the fact that he has yet to lift a book in his life. The only thing he’s been reading is the back of the Muscle Milk container before he makes his protein shake every morning. The only protein shake I would consider beneficial that early in the AM, better have the morning after pill sprinkled in it. Add some vodka. That way I can even re-name it: The Proteini

Typically, while this Beefcake is going about his usual workout he’s enamored with his own reflection in the mirror. Sometimes. he gazes over his body as if the mirror was a portal into Megan Fox’s vagina. Checking out every single muscle isn’t exactly hard to do either, as he insists on wearing a very awkwardly stretched out wife beater. You know, the type in which the straps hardly cover his perpetually hard nipples. His eyeing of himself screams “I’d fuck me.” It really is disturbing too see a grown man prance around the gym like a teenage girl who just got her tits.

The only thing that distracts the Beefcake from his own pecs, is the sight of a female doing anything remotely sexual looking. I especially don’t appreciate it when I take a break from a set of crunches to take a few gulps from my bottled water to see this dickhead starring at me. He keeps eying me as if it was my dirty little idea to suggestively stay hydrated during my workout. From this moment on, it’s crucial to avoid making eye contact. If you do, he’ll quickly rush over an offer to help you stretch. Considering there is only part of my body he’s actually interested in, I strongly reject the stretching offer. Hands off douche bag, I have no desire to resemble the Octomom. The key to escaping them is by gently insulting the chicken legs he is most likely hiding under those baggy sweats; then running in a zig zag pattern away from him before his roid rage takes the best of him. I lost my IPOD once during a sprint like this; it’s no laughing matter.

3) Lastly we have my absolute favorite type of Gym Jackass: The Rich Silver Fox! These fifty something men are going though the infamous mid-life crisis. Stage one of which includes buying a sports car; and stage two ‘getting back into the shape of their lives.’ Sadly enough the ball sack never really bounces back.

Douche: “Hey sweetheart, I’m old enough to be your daddy”

Me: “Well yeah I know, but I can still call you daddy!”

The other wonderful thing about this buff silver fox is that his pick-up lines range in entertainment value; based on the degree of his early onset of dementia. Most recently, while I was mid crunch, I have gotten this:

Douche: “Wow, has anyone ever told you that you look like a movie star?!”

Me: “Uhh um no, no I don’t think so, no, definitely not under these conditions. No”

I’m sure a simple ‘thank you’ would have sufficed, but I was so perplexed. It took me a good five minutes to figure out what movie star could possibly resemble my mid-work out appearance. I finally settled at a startled looking Jim Bellucci.

4) Lastly, we have the holistic fuckers. I don’t have a HUGE problem with them and their yoga mats; but every now and then they do annoy me. I would kindly point out to them, on occasion, that they are in fact on the bicep machine and perhaps getting in the downward dog position on it is not the smartest move. They don’t care about my somewhat snappy remarks. They are flexible enough to blow themselves; doubt they’re in the market for any more friends.

Well of course the gym isn’t always a complete sausage fest. And although many times it really is just a bunch of guys taking entirely too much time in between sets to eye each others balls; the occasional woman gets in the mix. I don’t typically notice them, since they share my same type of genitalia; but in some cases completely ridiculous looking bitches catch my eye. And then make me want to pour bleach in it.

1) The first type of female douche bag, I like to refer to as Butch Betty. This is simply because she can win an arm wrestling match with 99% of the WWF. I try to avoid this beast because I can see that she can easily snap my neck between her ass cheeks. I’m not ashamed to admit that butch women scare the shit out of me more than any horror movie you can muster up. This initially, irrational fear most likely stemmed from Rosie O’Donnell. But it has slowly progressed as I have worked out along side of women who bench pressed twice my body weight. As much as I try to stay out of their line of vision, I would never be apposed to running into one in the locker room. That way I can finally settle the pre-op/post-op debate in my head once and for all.

2) Secondly, we have the douche bags who seem to go to the Salon before gearing up for their ‘work out.’ We all know the type. Their hair is blown out to perfection, make-up slabbed on by the pound, and slutty clothing strategically stretched over each ass cheek. In most cases these women are not only over the hill; they are rolling off the fucking hill, clinging to their plastic surgeon on the way down. Their faces are virgin-tight, and botox filled. The only thing they really have going for them is usually (not always) their bodies.

I applaud them for keeping their bodies looking right, although sometimes it can be a bit deceiving. An optical illusion of sorts. Fellow gym goers see something attractive from a distance. They zero in on the ass, g string hiked up to its regular positioning below the bra clasp. Arousal and intrigue set in and BAM! The bitch turns around and something resembling Joan Rivers is suddenly smiling back in the innocent bystander’s direction. I’ve seen many people fall off the tred mill due to this horrific experience. It makes the gym a rather dangerous environment, which I think should be prevented. Perhaps make there douche bag queens paste a warning sign of sorts on those faux snake skin spandex pants of theirs. “WARNING: GOOD FROM FAR, BUT FAR FROM GOOD.” Someone should tell them to go shopping for their gym clothes somewhere other than the Stripper Depot.

3) I promised myself that I wouldn’t discuss this last type of female jackass until my issues are resolved. But the horrors I have witnessed must be shared with the rest of the world. I must warn you all of the one place in the gym you must avoid at a certain time of the day. Don’t thank me. Just spread the word to your friends, neighborhood hookers, family members, children, and even drug dealers.

My story starts as I enter the double doors of the gym. I give them my card to scan just like every other day. I don’t notice that I am a mere five minutes late this morning as I naivly march to the locker room. On the way I catch a glimpse of the pool out of the corner of my left eye. The view of a single swimming cap floating in the pool instantly triggers terror. I panic because I know what this means: The Senior Women’s Swimming Aerobics Class just let out; and I need to hit the locker room before they decide to hit the showers. I try and find a way to go around the dungeon, and at this point changing into my gym clothes in the main room is starting to sound like a good idea. Unfortunately, I had to decide against it seeing as I foolishly forgot my rape whistle in the glove compartment of my car, and I suspect desperately needing it when bending over to pull my pants up. So I realize I just have to suck it up, and I dart into the locker room faster than a Nigerian Gold Medalist.

WARNING: The scenes to follow are not appropriate for any audience. The ocean of senior citizen FUPA I had to battle in order to make it to my locker, can only be outdone by a gory scene out in a SAW movie. I tried my very best to look down while I was walking; but they make it like an obstacle course of saggy tits for me. I tried desperately not to step on any boobs, and finally made it to my safe haven a.k.a: locker. Minutes later, I run out of there; my IPOD shoved between my tits and my hair tousled as if I just had a nooner in my backseat. I look down at my sweat pants, which I managed to put on backwards in the midst of the commotion: upon this observation I take a moment and briefly thank God that I never caught on to the trend of buying sweats that say ‘Juicy’ on the ass. Obviously that non verbal message would have caused further disaster.

Perhaps these women are old enough to be my great great grandmother’s mother; but they ARE gym jackass nonetheless. They have earned the title by frolicking though the locker room in their ‘vintage’ Birthday suits…circa 1899.

In most cases, the different kinds of Gym Jackasses do very little to improve my overall already grim disposition. I honestly try to avoid conversation with them at all costs by sporting my headphones at all times…sometimes they’re not even plugged into anything.

Since Thanksgiving is coming to us faster than the guy I lost my virginity to, I decided to make a list of things that I have been most grateful for this year. Had the pilgrims loosened up a bit, I feel like our lists would have resembled one another. Simply because something tells me there were quite a few gang bangs with those Native Americans. You don’t just show up to a dinner party wearing nothing but a fur loin cloth and expect to walk away un-penetrated. That’s a life lesson, one can only truly learn the hardway

So here’s the list of things I am most grateful for. In no particular order, because that would entirely depend on my mood any given day.

1) Anything that vibrates. Except tooth brushes of course. That’s just disgusting… and the worst form of multi-tasking that has ever been invented if you ask me.

2) Rick Ross. I am incredibly grateful to have this seductive creature as a role mode/imaginary bff this year. I was inspired daily by his position as the boss. And I would too like to be the boss someday… pinky rings and all. I’m hoping that next year I can compose this very list after winning a quite competitive pillow fight against my over sized chocolate Twinkie.

3) Obedient Fuck Buddies. Every now and again I come across a fuck buddy who is well educated on the field of Fuck Buddy Etiquette. They don’t like to cuddle and appreciate the fact that their face is really one of the last things I’d like to wake up to in the morning. I thank them for their sensitivity to my feelings and salute them this year… and by ’salute’ I of course mean ‘blow.’

4) Douche Bags. I give these individuals who exude the sexual appeal of Donald Trump, a particularly hard time. They’re ability to suck at life so efficiently amuses me more than a fat chick on a tred mill. They’ve made my life a whole lot brighter on account of their lilac Ed Hardy shirts and reflective aviator sunglasses.

5) Escorts, I mean dancers, I mean escorts. I am grateful that high-end prostitution has not completely died out. I am more grateful when I find out that the go-go dancers I see at the clubs double as prostitutes for the high paying clients. Who knew that a few hundred bucks would buy you a bottle of Goose AND a bright(blood shot)-eyed hooker?! Selling point being that she can not only bust your nut, but can bust a move to the Michel Jackson remixes as well. Thank you Renaissance women!

6) Patron. I get a warm little tingle in my liver just thinking about it. The Patron buzz far surpasses any alcohol I have consumed thus far. It doesn’t make me tired, or dizzy, not even nauseous. Patron gets me hyper, and more importantly: slutty. This flow in logic is precisely why I have decided to name my first born Pat Ron Silver. This has me in a frenzy looking to reproduce with someone with the last name of ‘Silver’ (and Craig’s List is no longer a viable source for my search after the World Series whore ruined it for us all). God bless you Patron!

7) Big tits. Nothing helps pass the time more than motor boating a set of Funbags. I don’t discriminate between real or fake…as long as each is the size of my head, I am a happy Thanksgiving camper. My friend ‘Funbags’ is a prime example of how powerful the big titties can be. In fact, I stopped carrying around my safety flotation device and Swiss army knife as soon as I met her.

8) Cock. More specifically Horsecocks. They’re just like roller coasters. No one likes the small ones, and although the bigger ones can be scary at times, they are overall the most fun to ride. Thanks cock, you’ve served me well. Except for that one unfortunate minute man experience a few years ago. But starting this year, I won’t hold these weak/soft links against you any longer.

9) Chubby Chasers. It’s simple: the sight of a 400 pound bride with a groom that has an Ethiopian build, makes me happier than a 50 year old virgin in a whorehouse!

10) Privé Lounge in Old City, Philadelphia. Let’s just say the whole place is one big mother of a facilitator in my life.the biggest ‘judgment free zone’ since Planet Fitness. I’ve had some great nights there, most of which I can recall. Some of which I’m glad are a bit hazy. The genius of the whole place however is the layout. There is a big bar upstairs and a small bar downstairs. The only thing that separates the two is one giant staircase the size of the Octomom’s vagina. To walk up and down this beast in heels is a sobering experience to say the least. This way, I get plastered upstairs, sober up on the way down, then continue boozing downstairs, and head back up. It’s really just a never ending viscous sweet cycle (which i cherish).

11) Slutty college girls. I am grateful for them because no matter how cold it get’s outside during the school year, they always mange to show up without their underwear on. This of course keeps my professors sexually satisfied and happy, which just results in one less person for me to blow to get ahead in life.

12) My friends/family. It’s not very often that I can find a handful of people that take a liking to me, but when I do I like to hang on…and test my boundaries every chance I get. This is why I am grateful for them. Oh and also because they put out. In addition, I should of course mention my family because they support me, and DO NOT put out (on account of us not living in a red state).

13) The Silver Fox. Every now and again it’s nice to talk to an attractive man who has more to talk about than keg stands and farts. This forces me to speak to people that are about twenty years older than I or so. In conclusion: I’d hit it…then take it to the early bird special at the Diner. All jokes aside, I will say it’s refreshing being boned by a real man… he knows what he’s doing, and I don’t have to be gentle with him because he’s a real mans man… therefore, I don’t have to worry about breaking his hymen.

14) Cougars. Sometimes I see them at the gym, from a far. And I think to myself, ” wow she’s 45 years old and she has the most incredible body!” and then she turns around and I go ” Damn, I’m so grateful that my face doesn’t look like a wrinkly Louis Vuitton bag.”

15) IPhones. I love my IPhone. It keep me in the loop of a lot of things. Most importantly, Facebook. It’s especially significant when people post pictures of their breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Simply because I get worried sick when I don’t know whether my Facbook friends have been properly nourished that day. And it isn’t until I see a mobile upload of a half eaten sushi roll and or a fourth of a pop tart, that I can have a good night’s sleep. And pray, just PRAY that they will be kind enough to post pictures of their Pho in the morning…. so I know that I don’t worry about them treating their hangover properly. It gets to be incredibly concerning! So thank you Facebook for saving me a little bit of grief!

Oh yeah also, you can totally watch porn on the IPhone…that’s pretty fucking awesome.

16) Ugly lights. There comes a point at the end of the night when the magical bar comes to a sad and final close. This is final decision time. Do I go to after hours? No, I don’t do drugs and there’s no other way I’m staying up past 3AM. Am I going home with the guy that’s been ever so gently humping my leg all night? Well that depends on the ugly lights! And as soon as those fuckers spark on, I get my answer. I say better now than in the harsh light of the morning sun….ha like I’d ever stay til morning

17) My 9 year old brother. At the tender age of nine he’s outdone me. At this rate, I see him ruling a small country by the age of 12.
Brent: He Elina, guess what I can dance like Elvis
Me: Oh yea? How ? show me
Brent: (While doing the pelvic thrust) Just like this, it’s real easy, all you have to do is shake your ball sack.
Conclusion: I will never be able to dance like Elvis…

18) Bartenders. They can do no wrong in my eyes. These beautiful creatures serve my needs and I will forever love them and their ‘craft’ for as long as I live. They are the sole reason, why my parents never quite seemed to get me off the bottle. Awkward, already breastfeeding others and still not off the bottle myself.

19) Miami. What’s not to be grateful for? The place is beautiful, the people are beautiful, and there’s literally not a sober moment to be had. I have done plenty of outrageous things there myself. Where else could you witness a couple porking on the beach…at noon…in front of a group of senior citizens?!

20) Thanksgiving. I am grateful for the sole reason why I am writing this list. Sure it’s lamer than Christmas and New Years, but there is one very special reason why i am grateful for this very holiday: TURKEY! Not the ones your mother shoves into the oven for a few hours while everyone else is watching the game, not even the country (which I had the unfortunate experience of visiting and will NEVER be grateful for). No, this wonderful word actually has 3 definitions. ‘Turkey’ can also mean women that enjoy a good ’stuffing!’ …GUILTY! Ahh you gotta love the holidays,

Happy Holidays everyone! Remember to eat, drink, and be safe: as in beating that creepy uncle off with a bat before you pass out in front of the TV. Silver Fox or not, that shit’s not right.

At some point, banging a person of your own generation lost its appeal. I would venture it was most likely around the time modern medicine made great strides in the plastic surgery field. As a result, we now have porking that transcends through all different age groups. If I had to sum this movement up in one Hallmark Card, it would go something like: ‘Shit, even nana is getting hers.’

Because of this bizarre, yet fascinating phenomenon we are left with a very special breed of woman: The Cougar. I have been studying this creature in a habitat she must thrive in, in order to maintain her craft: the gym. Aside from bars and lounges, this is a place where you will find these fuckers on their downtime. As in, when they are not looking for young boys to devour. Now I know this all sounds well and good to the obnoxiously horny crowd. An older and incredibly attractive woman wants to fuck your brains out of your head and onto the headboard; most guys are up for the challenge. Hell, I’ve even considered getting pounded by a silver fox myself. But there are a few warning signs you must be aware of so you don’t get in over your genitals.

Pros of engaging in a genital embrace with a COUGAR

1) One word: EXPERIENCE! Know that a seasoned cougar will know her way around your junk. She’ll navigate your shit like a treasure map. I of course use the term ‘treasure’ here quite loosely. Keep in mind that she’s seen more dick in her lifetime than a guy serving a life sentence in a maximum security prison. So no matter whether your hiding a jack hammer in your pants, or if it’s in fact a little 4 incher your concealing; she can get the job done. She’s serviced more men than the local gas station and it’s your turn at the pump baby. (Just make sure you state cash or credit before you fill her up).

2) She wants it…badly. A woman reaches her sexual peak at the age of 40. And to be honest men around that age have more problems delivering than the stoner working for Pizza Hut. They may have what it takes, but they’re only really able to work so hard because they reach their sexual peak at the ripe old age of 18! Aint that some shit?! Well it is indeed. So here you have it: a hot cougar, and she’s craving a dick that will work efficiently. And even maybe put in overtime when needed.

3) There’s really no wooing to be done. I mean you still have to be playful and charming, but don’t expect to have to wine and dine her too much to get your Cougar to put out. One Margarita at Fridays and her ankles will be hooked to her hoop earrings within minutes. It gets a little awkward for the bartender at this point but you slip him a tip, and he will keep his eyes averted as you guide her our the front door… while carefully trying not to drop her by balancing her on your dick. For those of you who are truly blessed, no hands necessary.

4) You don’t have to worry about getting her pregnant. Now, before you argue hear me out. It’s not that she can’t get pregnant, her eggs are yet to pass expiration date. Just because they won’t make the brightest omelet… I mean kid, doesn’t mean it’s impossible. But you can be damn sure that if the Cougar says she’s on birth control, she’s taking those pills like clockwork. The last thing she needs to balance with her already busy life, and kids that might be slightly older than you in age, is another fucking kid. As fond as she may be of you below the waste, she does not want some pimply ass intern to father her next child. In addition, she also refuses to let those long spent hours at the gym sucking off her trainer go to waste. Those were some serious squats she did over his dick, and mothering your child is not worth making all that work good for nothing within a matter of months.

5) Lastly, this cougar has something to prove! Not necessarily to you, or the rest of your softball team for that matter. She has something to prove to herself. Some sort of inner validation that tells her she can still ride a dick with the best of them at 40. Yes, the Cougar is on a mission to prove that she’s still hotter and more flexible than the other moms in the PTA. She’s here to relive her glory days on the tip of your iceberg.Go with it. Even if she happens to scream out “Yeah Bobby give it to me, see this is why you should have taken me to prom over Tracy Clark.” Just let her have her throw back moment. Pay no attention to the fact that your name is not Bobby; and more importantly, thank Tracy Clark for not being a whore.

Cons of engaging in a genital embrace with a Cougar.

1) Her husband. Given, that she is not separated or divorced; you may just have to make a new ‘friend.’ Make sure he does not have a gun. If he does, learn how to run fast…and preferably in a zig-zag like motion.

2) The kiddies! Make sure that under no circumstances do those kids of hers find out that there is a guy, that is old enough to be in their graduating class, putting a smile on their mothers face everyday.( Among other things). See because it’s really only the teenagers that will give you a problem. Last thing you need is the little pot head punk getting all hormonal on you, and kicking your ass on the front lawn. And if it’s a teenage daughter, well, I certainly hope you make sure she’s 18 before you entertain any further thoughts!

3) Vagina. After a certain number of kids, and a decent amount of mileage over the years, it’s not what it used to be in it’s glory(hole) days. One could only hope that the cougar keeps up with her kegels as strictly as she does with the rest of her workout regime. But in most cases, make sure not to be surprised if it ends up being like throwing a pencil down a well.

4) Read carefully, this is perhaps the most important warning of all. In some cases, you will run across a serious CLINGER ALERT with these women. Worst of all it will completely blindside you. It’s been known to happen, when a cougar starts out just wanting to fuck, and then goes completely bat-shit crazy on your ass. Well, this is where it goes terribly wrong: When you start fucking a cougar more than the standard, once a week, she gets a little taste of what it would be like to have you around more often. To fuck, to show off to her book club, and well just a sort of self validation. Once they decide you are what they want, they will stop at absolutely nothing to get you to feel the same fucking way. At this point you have very little choice, and I can only suggest scoping out your options in a witness protection-like program.

So in the end, a cougar can be compared to fine wine… better with age, but too much of a good thing will earn you nausea and a headache. (As long as it’s not herpes).