I’m sitting here buck naked. I’m at the window. If my neighbor exits his house, as history has time and time again proven he will, he’s gonna have no choice but to look in here and see me typing at the kitchen table, completely naked. I need to get a tuxedo fitting this morning before work, but that’s not why I’m naked. That’s why I’m typing this an hour early and why I’ve blown off my shower and THAT’S why I’m naked. I don’t have time for this bullshit today, clothes…neighbors. I’m gonna have to be naked, bosses, customers. Fucking eh, man. (that’s the Canadian way to say Fucking A, just by the weigh).
So yeah, I was thinking I’d figure something great and profane out this morning, like what is really going through the mind of a porn actress when she’s sitting there begging for the big greasy dude that’s just fucked her in the ass to come all over her face. I bet it's not "oh finally!" I'm guessing it's something more like “jesus, I’m almost done with this horrible job. Just blow your gross load so I can get a rag and head over to the cocaine table.”
Well, honestly, I don’t know. I sense a little genuine enthusiasm there on occasion, which, let’s be honest, is both odd and awesome.
I was watching man vs food last night and my wife was wondering if he hates his job. I would hate that job, but I think if you’re the right type of guy it would be amazing. Just gorging every night and being a general pig. Kind of similar to being a male pornstar, really. People think what you do is gross and immoral, but when it’s all said and done, it’s pretty fun. Sure you have to ignore some basic truths and all that, but hey, if you’re into living in the now and not really having to answer to your parents, well, Man Versus Food or Buttfuck Sluts Prime Cuts number 22 could be the job for you, I guess.
Look. I can’t really write this today. The baby’s diaper pail is full, my ribs are killing me, I’m naked, I’ve got to get my measurements taken for a tux (I tried writing in 9” dong, but they said they needed more precise measurements. I said how fucking precise do you want me to get? Centimeters? Cuz that’s un-American.)
I think my point here is proven. Namely, this morning is a dreaded hellscape. My kid’s about to spill French toast on some Chihuahuas….sigh.