Some people love art. Some people love literature. Some people love music.
Some people love all these things; and they may also love movies, or TV, or sports, or dining, or travel, or theater, or computers, or cars, or clothes, or whatever-the-fuck. They may even love blogging, despite all good sense. I even enjoy some of these things myself, within reason. And yes, having over 36,000 tracks in my iTunes library is perfectly reasonable. Music, more than any other thing (besides maybe food), can bring people together; and by together, I mean sexually. You see, that’s what it’s all about for me; and not just with music, but with everything; because at the end of the day, there is no single thing I will ever love more than pussy.
If you put me in a cage with a button that releases food and a button that releases pussy, I’m pushing the pussy button every time. A movie button, same thing. A blogging button, not even a fucking contest. A car may have a shot, but it’s gotta be a Goddamn sexy car; and I’m talkin’ Italian sexy; not American, or Japanese, or even German sexy; because those are oxymorons. I’ll take pussy over a Lexus or a Beamer any day, any way. A Porsche might have a shot, but only the Carrera (want to be Italian much?). Porsche can shove its faggy Boxster and 911 up its ass. Also, If someone ever asks me, “Did you see that show the other night?”, my answer (usually internal) is, “No, but I saw some pussy.”, or “What kind of laptop should I get?”—“Pussy.”, or “How was your trip?”—“It was too short…on pussy.” You get the idea.
And it used to be that pussy was pussy, and whatever you were getting was serviceable enough to be worth the effort. As I get older, however, I’m finding that my taste in pussy has been growing ever more refined. I was reminded of this just the other day after taking a shower. What happened was, I had just bought some new shower soap, and I hadn’t put much thought into it at the time. After all, it’s just fuckin’ soap, and I’ll buy whatever’s on sale. It wasn’t until I got home and cracked that bitch open that I noticed it was called “Crème Douche” (on the French side of the packaging). When I first read this, I threw it across the bathroom, because I thought I had wasted 3 bucks on some chick bullshit. But when I realized this translated as “Cream Shower”, I instead punted it all the way across the street because I had actually bought soap that sounded like a gay porn flick. The only problem was that I now had no soap and I needed to take a shower for work. So, after convincing myself that it sounded more like a facial money shot (a very hetero facial money shot), I streaked across the street (while dripping wet) and retrieved the Crème Douche. If anyone had happened to take notice of the Crème Douche and the wet, naked guy retrieving it, they surely would have called the cops. I knew I was safe though, since the cops are a bunch of fat, lazy fucks that never come unless you’ve committed a traffic violation they can collect extortion money on.
After my douche, I went to work; and the truth is, I felt way more fresh than I usually do. What really tripped me out though, is that even like 6 or 7 hours post-douche, I still felt and smelled so damn fresh that I actually wanted to go fuck myself. Since I couldn’t, I just played with my nipple rings a little and cupped my ass. I also now realized that douche wasn’t just something you called your boss, but is probably fundamental to my love of pussy. If I think about it, I’ve probably just been lucky, since I find most pussy to be pretty fuckin’ delicious. I know now though, that a lot of care has gone into the prep of this delicious pussy. I can even draw a direct correlation between the amount of exterior maintenance and the quality of pussy contained within. I dated a girl (very briefly) that had some Sheena: Queen of the Jungle thing going on, and the fumes coming out of that hot spring made me want to wretch. I said (from a safe distance), “Holy fuck! Did you just vacuum a barn with that thing?! It smells like a fuckin’ landfill site in there.”—not fish, Petra. But then, on the opposite end of the spectrum, I had a girlfriend that shaved bald; and she smelled and tasted like peach cobbler ala mode—one of the most delicious flavor combinations known to man—and I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to lick that plate clean, if you know what I mean. So, that’s pretty much your scale. Jungle=Landfill to Bald=Peach Cobbler Ala Mode. In fact, if I were to manufacture douche, I already know what my first prototype would be.
