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August 13, 2006


That One Guy

Its not like you ever asked me to kill them. Humph. They are totally my nemesisesesesesesesesesesesssss. I owe them big time for that week with limited eye sight! May they suffer pain... sweet pain.

friend omega

handjobs difficult? maybe not. to do well? hmmm...

see, the thing with receiving a handjob from someone else is that it's moronic. when the recipient at one of these lame, sophomoric attempts at intimacy, i generally look down (literally and proverbially) with pity and sadness in my eyes.

sometimes, i remark that "baby, you're dealing with the master." trust me... i can do that quicker, better, and much more efficiently on my own. you're just embarrassing yourself. like emeril's mom insisting on making turkey at thanksgiving and it comes out all dry and gross and BAM! mom just let me BAM! make the BAM! turkey next BAM! next BAM! next year.

i think emeril has tourette's.

Terrible Mother

That One Guy, you would have done that for me? Really? If I asked? Crikey.

It's just like you to leave me with nothing to say, Omega.


I really feel like handjobs are getting the short end of the stick in this discussion. Ahem. Moving on. Granted, they are clumsy, maybe, but I think that like anything they can be elevated quite a bit above the bad rap they're getting here. This should be a call to arms, people. Or hands. Whatever.

Terrible Mother

Sure, sure, Paul. A call to arms.

Notice that none of my female readership has responded. Probably because they are rolling their eyes at you.


As they should be. C'mon, if I can't play devil's advocate then the terrorists have truly won. ;)

Terrible Mother

Terrorists? Pfft! You just want to talk about handjobs.


There's something I'd like to post, but it would get edited by the management of this ego burb, so I'll leave that portion of the response to the respective imaginations of TM and R.

I will say this. Terrible mother though she may be, she's a most excellent host. I had a wonderful time, and enjoyed the fine company. Though intially disapointed by his absence, I now think it's better Friend 2 made himself conveniently unavailable. He might've ruined everything.

You may regret all of this, TM, for now you're doomed to a return visit of greater length (two nights!). And next time it will be "This Gun for Hire," and "Double Indemnity." I won't stop until we can converse fluently in nothing but B-moviease (if you get to make up words, we all get to make up words).

As for the wasps, so long as you remember me as your freak in shining armor, then facing down those beasts (approximately 1/3200 of my size) armed only with enough insecticide to kill ten of their colonies will certainly have been worth it.



Friend R

Just a few notes:

1) When you asked me to deal with your wasp problem, you offered me a stick. I suggested the wasp-killer spray, and you apparently purchased it, but only after I'd already gone to deal with chickens. Granted, I'm man enough to take on a wasp nest armed with nothing but a stick, but I'm not stupid enough to do so.

2) If you give handjobs like you hold a pool cue, then I'm glad I'm gay. Not that you're offering or anything.


I need to clarify about the wasps, too, TM, despite whatever strain it might put onto your self-conscious self-presentation:

When I was over and we were barbecuing, and Thing Three kept tugging with grubby hands at my shirt and saying, "Crazy Mikey, kill the wasps!" I realized that I had been invited over into the middle of an awful and devious plot: I was there to cook the meat, nominally, but actually you'd trained the Things to force me into other forms of forced and unpleasant labor.

Also, when I offered all the same, even knowing I was being set up, you said I shouldn't because you didn't know how it could be done without risking mass swarming and death by stinger.

And, as an aside: I think it might have been for the best I missed the pool game. Too many people holding pool cues between thumb and forefinger and speaking of foreskin with male-oriented affection I simply don't hold.



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