Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Conversations with a Cootch, Part III and IV

Fuck. I fucking jinxed myself with the "things are going good" line of a few posts back. Right after that post my computer fucking crashed. So, now I'm at my mom's house trying to hammer out a new post with her hovering over my shoulder saying shit like "why do you swear so much", "whats cootch mean?" "why didn't you invite your cousins to the barbeque".

Shoot me now. Anyway, I'm gonna try and finish this as fast as I can so I can get the fuck outta Dodge.

Part III: Scene: in the kitchen, chilling.

Hootch: Tell me about your boyfriend.
Tera: Mmmm. This drink is really strong.
H: You dont have to drink that. I can make you another one if you want.
T: No. Its good.
H: Tell me when the rufi starts kicking in.
T: Hardi-fuckin-har, mister. So, what do you want to know about my boyfriend?
H: What does he do?
T: He's a biker.
H: What does that mean?
T: It means he's a biker - a member of a motorcycle gang.
H: Pshhht! Bikers are fags.
T: Ya, okay.
H: What does he do for a living?
T: That. He makes a living being part of a motorcycle gang.
H: Thats not a real job, is it? How much money can you make doing that?!
T: I dont think you really wanna know.
H: Yeah, I wanna know. I asked, didn't I?
T: I think you're jealous.
H: WHA?!? Jealous?! Of what?
T: You. Are. Jealous.
H: Pshht! I'm not jealous of no leather chaps wearing...moustache faced...
T: Lets not talk about it anymore, okay. What did you do today?
H: I did what all the REAL hardcore gangsters in Toronto did.
T: Whats that?
H: I watched Felicity, BEEEOTCH!!
T: I cant believe I thought I liked you.
H: Dont make me show you my pimp hand, beeeotch.
T: You're not funny. And stop saying "beeotch". You sound like an idiot
H: I think I'm drunk.
T: No shit. Here, pour me another drink, lightweight.

Part IV; later on in the evening. pretty wasted. sitting in the backyard watching the sky.

Tera: You know where I always wanted to go?
Hootch: Where?
T: Bangkok.
H: Yeah. Why Bangkok?
T: Cuz I like the way it sounds.
H: You know where I always wanted to go?
T: Where?
H: Uranus. Because its outta this world. WAHAHAHA.
T: Lets have another drink.
H: You know where else I've always wanted to go?
T: No. Where?
H: Nebraska.
T: Why Nebraska?
H: I dont know what I'm saying anymore.

Monday, May 29, 2006

Conversations with a cootch, Part II

It was 4:30pm. I had a few hours to kill before people started arriving for the barbeque.

What to do? What to do?

Taking a page from the 12 year olds in the neighborhood, I rolled out my basketball net from the top of my driveway to the side of the street and started shooting some hoops. Not more than a couple minutes went by before I saw Tera walking up the sidewalk toward my house. All of a sudden the birds started singing more joyously, the sun shined more brightly, the sky looked a magical blue and I started hearing the theme song from Dawson’s Creek coming from inside my head, as Tera moved closer in slow motion. "I don’t wanna wait, for our lives to be over, before ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-tum. Oh, I don’t want to wait….”

Hootch: Hey, you’re early.
T: I brought cookies to make. Can I use your kitchen?
H: Yeah
T: Just so you know, I haven’t got up this early since…well, since I can remember.
H: Oh yeah. What time did you wake up?
T: 1:45pm
H: F-u-uck. What time do you normally wake up?
T: Around 3:30
H: I’m touched at your sacrifice
T: Are you being a smart ass
H: Haha. No I’m glad you could make it.
T: So, this is your place?
H: Yep.
T: It looks nice.
H: Thanks.
T: Is there a bathroom I can use inside?
H: Yeah. I’ll show you (we walk in my house). Bathroom is right thru those doors. There is also a bathroom on the 2nd floor but don’t go there unless you have to. It looks like a fucking dungeon.
T: What’s wrong with it?
H: Ahhh…it looks like a dungeon. What else has to be wrong with it?
T: Don’t give me any attitude, mister. I’ll beat you up tonight in front of all your friends.
H: Alright, settle down. There is the bathroom. I’ll wait for you in the kitchen. Want a drink?
T: Sure.
H: Ohh, and…you’re not gonna do any blow in there, right?
T: No. Why, you got some?
H: No, who do you think I am - Pablo-fuckin-Escobar? I don’t do that shit.
T: Ok, don’t get all twisted.
H: I’ll be in the kitchen.
T: I’ll be there soon, Pablo.

I don’t wanna wait for our lives to be over, something something something something something….

Sunday, May 28, 2006

The Barbeque Part One: Conversations With A Cootch

Shit. Things have really been going my way the past 2 weeks. It seems that I’m catching every break - those that I’ve worked hard for and deserve, and others I haven’t worked for at all. It seems everything is just falling into place for me. Its kinda making me nervous. I get the feeling fate is gonna turn the tables soon. Anyway, my apparent good luck continued Friday night when Tera called regarding the barbeque.

Cast of Characters:
(1) Tera - super fun stripper; hates Marianne
(2) Marianne - stripper; dumb as a brick, but as long as she’s naked she is a goddess; hates Tera
(3) Me - Douchebag Extraordinaire

T: Hiya, Hootch. Its Tera.
H: Hey, Tera. Whats going on? You at work now?
T: Yeah. Its fucking dead. Do you think you could give me a lift home.
H: When, now?!
T: Yeah.
H: Ahhhh. What happened to they guy who normally drives you home?
T: (Silence for roughly 5 seconds) Listen, I’m not gonna shit you. That guy is my boyfriend but me and you should do something.
H: Yeah?
T: Yeah.
H: Like what?
T: I dunno...Like spend the day tomorrow.
H: Tomorrow I’m having a barbeque. You wanna come?
T: Ha!! I knew you were having a barbeque, you fucker! Why do you think I called?
H: I thought you needed a lift home?
T: No. God, you’re so dense!! I wanted you to invite me to your party.
H: Ohh. So you don’t need a ride home? I...I feel so manipulated, haha.
T: Whatever.
H: So, what else is going o...
T: Gawd, Marianne is being so annoying. She’s telling everyone she’s not coming to work tomorrow because you invited her to your party.
H: I never told her about it.
T: You didn’t?
H: No. She can come if she wants but I didn’t call her. I thought she was mad at me.
T: Yeah, I heard about that. What happened?
H: I dunno. Fuck. Last time we were supposed to go out she wanted to go to bingo but I wanted to watch a movie instead.
T: Marianne goes to Bingo?! She’s such a loser.
H: Anyway, her cousin won, like, $1000 that night so Marianne was pissed that we didn’t go.
T: You know, when you guys go out, she tells everyone at work all about it.
H: What does she say?
T: Everything. She thinks that she owns you. She’s such a bitch. Lets not talk about her anymore. What are you doing tonight?
H: Nothing. I’m just downloading some songs now.
T: Are you still listening to Courtney Love?
H: A little.
T: Yellllcchhhhggg!! I hate Courtney Love.
H: How can you hate her? You two are exactly the same, only she has a better handle on her drug problem than you do.
T: Fuck you. I’m hanging up.
H: Wait, wait, wait, are you still coming tomorrow.
T: Yeah, but we’re not sleeping together.
H: Whatever.

Friday, May 26, 2006

Time for a Barbeque? Awwww, Hells Yeah

TIme for a barbeque this weekend. Maybe two. Time for the sun to come out and make it hot. Time for the cootches to congregate to my backyard and make it hotter. Telephone calls have been made. E-mails have been sent. There is not a woman of ill-repute, in Toronto, that hasn't been invited. Kinda curious to see how it'll all shake down.

Anyway, in preparation for these summer parties I purchased a new barbeque. Me and my friends put it together last week. Mally is the dude on the far left that looks like he's either suffering from facial paralysis or shitting himself. The guy in the middle is Sterg. And the good looking fella on the right is me - tsssssss, sizzling hot!!

Assembling the barbeque was actually easier than I expected. It only took us 16 hours and 35 minutes. Sure, we had a few parts left over, but nothing too important - several electrical wires, a safety valve, a wheel and an unknown thingamajigger.

While we assembled the barbeque, we ate a fucking mountain of jujubees, drank at least a 24, verbally and physically assaulted each other, made up... and assaulted each other again. I think someone may have also smashed a bottle of smirnov over Mal's head (which may account for his expression).

Yeah, time for a barbeque this weekend. The braincells are already saying their final farewells as they know many of them wont make it to Monday alive.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

If I had to fuck a guy...I mean had to, if my life depended on it. I’d fuck who outta these three guys?

okay. This post is inspired from the opening lines of True Romance.

Scene: Clarence Worley, sitting at a bar beside a hooker, half-whispers "I’ve always said, if I had to fuck a guy...I mean if I had to, if my life depended on it...I’d fuck Elvis".
Then the hooker looks at him, smiles, nods and agrees "I’d fuck Elvis".
Clarence, thinking he sees an opening, tries to further the conversation by saying "so... ahhh, we’d both fuck Elvis. Its nice to meet people with common interests".

Then the person I’d be watching the movie with would leave because I’d be making an ass of myself, rolling on the floor laughing and yelling "YEEEESSSS, THIS MOVIE IS SO FUCKING COOL".

Anyway... the contestants for "what guy I would fuck, if I had to fuck a guy":

Ross from Friends: One good thing about being forced to make man-love with Ross is that I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind being the catcher. In fact, looking at the above photo of him, I’m certain he would demand it. The bad thing (from a heterosexual perspective) is that I’m pretty sure he’d demand we do it over and over again. Another negative Ross would have going against him is that god damn beagle face of his. If I ever caught a glimpse of his mug in the mirror, or if he ever turned around to mouth the words "I love your cock inside my ass", I may think I was boning my neighbour’s dog.

Next up, Shaq: oh lord. Shaque would end up rearranging my insides. I’m pretty certain, despite my best arguments, he’d end up impaling me from the back and you’d see the tip of his knob protruding from out my mouth. On the plus side - there is the very real possibility that I may die of the subsequent internal injuries and I wont have to endure the ridicule my friends would have otherwise let fly in my direction.

Lastly, some anonymous black guy: I have no fucking idea who this guy is but someone should tell him that rocking the James Brown hair-do and the Dave Letterman teeth is not a good combination.

And the winner is... its a tie between Ross and Shaq!!! Boys, get the astro-glide ready I'm/you're going in!!

The Repercussions Of Breaking Up With My Woman After I Consensually Took Her Arse Virginity

from another blog I keep where I post my serious, political and philosophical missives. This shit is deep, yo.

I have no readership. No one reads any of the shit I write. However, just in case you are noticing the numbers by the counter on my blog and are saying "what’s this douche bag talking about? Most of his posts get 30, 40, 50 hits. Heck, a few may even approach triple digits!!" I should point out that all those "reads" have been the result of one woman. One crazy woman madly clicking away on any and every link my blog has to offer. Thanks to her I may average around 50 "reads" per entry and have amassed an astounding fortune of $1.38 in my adsense account.

Given the above, dear (hypothetical) readers, you may be asking "wassa problem, Hootch. Be thankful you have at least one fan, you ungrateful prick".

O-ho-ho, but this is not just any fan, dear (hypothetical) reader. This woman is my stalker. Yes, its true. She has been stalking me since I consensually took her arse virginity. She was 29 years old. I was 8.

Now, I know what you all are thinking - a HootchandCootch in Grade 4 and a 29 year old woman should never have been. But there were extenuating circumstances. I was very mature for my age. I was already reading at a grade 6 level. Besides, it was all very lovely and not the "wham, bam, thank you ma’am" sorted smut you all may be imagining. We had sincere feelings for one another. We were soul mates. I was going to make her my wife.

I would visit her every evening. She would pour us a nice bottle of wine. We’d listen to jazz on the radio and make sweet and passionate love for hours on end. Then, I would get up and practice my multiplication times table and spelling words for the next day. It was wonderful. It was all sunshines and roses.

But eventually things began to turn sour. She began to get jealous and over-possessive. She’d call me 10 to 15 times a day and accuse me of being unfaithful: "Hootch, I have to know. Is there anybody else? Tell me I am the only one, Hootch. Tell me I’m the only one."

And I’d be like "Goddamn, woman! I’m trying to watch the Transformers here!! Would you leave me alone. There is nobody else, okay. Satisfied?"

"Oh, Hootch. Thank you. You don’t know how happy you’ve made me. I love you Hootch. I love you so. Why don’t you come over after your program so I can show you. So I can show you how much I love you."

"BITCH, AFTER THE TRANSFORMERS I WATCH HE-MAN DEFENDER OF THE UNIVERSE, YOU KNOW THAT!! And after that I have my school work. These connect the dot puzzles aren’t going to solve themselves, now are they?!"

"No. No of course not. Forgive me Hootch".

"Alright. Dont let it happen again. And next time I come over wear the fishnets stockings and the dog-collar. That shit is hot. Oh, baby, I gotta go. I'll call you later. I forgot the Smurfs were on today.

A few weeks later I had to call it quits. I couldn’t go on like this. The woman was driving me crazy. The relationship was over. And when I broke the news to her the shit really hit the fan.

Next up (maybe): part II of this poorly thought-out and even more poorly written tale.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Dolla Dolla Bill, Ya'll

There are a ton of things that I’m not very good at - writing a blog for one, remaining sober for very long, resisting the advances of the neighborhood gutter tramps...

Mmmmm, gutter tramps.

Anyway, yeah, a million fucking things I stink at, but one thing I am good at is my job - and my job is investing . I mean that’s all I fucking do - research stocks to invest in (and watch porno). So, today when a colleague at work, who shall remain nameless (Gary), asked me to justify a long-term strategy I started to employ several years ago, I may have over-reacted. I may have taken it personally. Unfortunately, I may have acted unprofessionally (yes, I know, thats hard to imagine). So, as a result of recognizing my amateurish behavior I’d like to extend an apology to that co-worker and say "I am sorry" (go fuck yourself, douchebag)

Monday, May 22, 2006

What I Did While Blogger Was Down

I’m guessing (and almost certainly correctly) that all of you were far more productive with your time than I was while Blogger was down. Perhaps some of you contemplated the road to peace in the middle east. Maybe others debated the relevance of publically funding NASA space exploration at the expense of social programs for the underprivileged.

Me? What did I do while Blogger was down? I surfed the net for inter-racial porno.

Recently I’ve seemed to develop an interest in black babe on white dude porno. I cant really say why. Some of the girls I don’t even find that attractive. I’m considering the possibility that my interest in this type of pornography has subconscious racist underpinnings. Perhaps these images are a manifestation of a secret desire to see black women oppressed. Although more likely, I suspect I just wanna get done by an black chick.

Sunday, May 21, 2006

Who Is More Black??

Alright. This is the first part of, hopefully, what will become an on-going weekly series tentatively titled: Who is More Black?

Today, up for debate we have Richard Simmons, Billy Bob Thorton and Puff Daddy.

Up first, Richard Simmons.

Richard Simmons gets off to a great start by rocking the hardcore 'fro. However, points have to be deducted for what appears to be a sequins tank top and an expression that can only lead me to believe that someone is tickling Mr. Simmons' nuts with a feather duster. Black Factor: Not bad. Better than most people would've expected.

Next up, Billy Bob Thorton:

Right off the bat Mr Thorton gets off to a rocky start on account of his name alone - Billy Bob. However, Mr Thorton finishes strong by rocking a knockoff Michael Jackson Thriller jacket. Thats nice! Black Factor: Pretty good. Bonus points awarded on account of Angelina Jolie saying their sex was so wild she almost died of exhaustion, on a multitude of occasions, when her and Billy Bob were still together. Thats gangtser!

Our final contestant vying for black supremacy is Puff Daddy.

Puff is in tough, here. Points must be deducted immediately for his music. No self respecting black man would make, let alone listen to Diddy's brand of "urban music". I once heard Will Smith say he liked Puffy's music, but like I said - no self respecting black man. Deductions also must be made for wardrobe selection. Unless you are auditioning to become the fucking spokesperson for Burger King, rocking a crown is a no-no. And as for the outfit?? All I can say is, its never a good idea to steal the Pope's garments. Black Factor: Diddy is next scheduled to publically appear at upcoming Klan meetings and monster truck rallies.

The Corporate Beast Has Been Slain

Today at work it was more of the same. It was more of the same soul-sucking endeavor that has left me an empty shell of a man. Over-worked and under-paid, I was slaving away to feed the corporate beast. Then... a flicker of hope - literally. There was a loud "ZAPP" sound in the office and the lights flickered repeatedly on and off. Was the power in the office gonna go down? Everyone waited with bated breath, secretly hoping. Then, another flicker of the office lights and computer monitors. "WOOOOAAAHHH", everyone commented, awoken from their work induced stupor, as though they were witnessing the greatest fireworks show ever. Then with a final "ZAPPP...fizzzzzzlllle", we were in darkness. The power went down. Everyone cheered. The corporate beast had been slain.

Overwhelmed with joy at this unexpected turn of events, everyone started celebrating. We were all singing and dancing. It was great. After a lengthy absence, our Holy Spirits were returning to us. We were losing all previous inhibitions. We had years of living to make up for as a result of being enslaved by the corporate beast. In amongst the rapidly growing out of control celebrations, this one thousand year old Chinese lady, from my department, climbed on top of her desk and performed a strip tease. She undid her bra and immediately her 1000 year old breasts drooped to the floor. They looked like two huge wrinkled slinkies covered in human skin.

The celebrations were really picking up. My great, insane African friend (and co-worker) began savagely undressing and ripping his company approved attire from his body. "These are the chains that bound us, comrades", he yelled, holding up a pair of his dress socks. "Liberate yourselves from the shackles of the past". Immediately, everyone began undressing and throwing their work clothes in the middle of the office. We were all naked. Every single one of us - buck. It was glorious.

People were singing, laughing, dancing, fucking. There was a full scale orgy breaking out on my boss’ desk. Someone was taking a shit in the General Manager’s filing cabinets while others were throwing expensive pieces of equipment out the window.

What was I doing? I’m glad you asked. I had my chair reclined back, had kicked up my feet on my desk and started masturbating. "HOOTCH!!!" a co-worker came up to me, all smiles, and yelled, "I cant believe you’re masturbating at your desk".

"Me neither," I said, "I normally save this type of behavior for the office bathroom".

Then Samantha unexpectedly came from around the corner. Her face - sunshine. Her breasts - sublime. I couldn’t help myself. I started firing off rounds of hot ejaculate all across the office. No distance was safe from my lobbing globs of manhood. SPLAT!! There goes one right on the Employee of the Month Picture. SPLATT!! There goes another one right on the back of Jeffery's head. SPLATTTT!! One last round for good measure dripping off of Katherine’s chin. "Johnny!!" she smiled at me, her eyes playful and inquisitive, "Is this your ejaculate?"

"Yeah. How did you know?" I asked.

"Because it tastes sooo good". She replied

Damn straight, it does.

Saturday, May 20, 2006

SuperFabulous Photo of IDigHootchandCootch (for everyone to masturbate to)

Who is this douche bag? Oh yeah, that’s me. I can always recognize myself in photographs because I always look like I’m holding in a shit.

I really have nothing to write about today, so I thought I’d just post a picture of myself and comment on it.

Okay, here we go: This is a picture of me in front of an old building..... Ahhh.... what else? Oh ya, as you can see I am wearing shorts. Ahhhh.. uhhhhmmm... I am also wearing a black t shirt. Uhhmmm.... Some of my best friends are black. Ahhmm... Shit, I got nothing, people. I am drawing a blank. To tell you the truth I don’t even know where this picture of me was taken. Does this look like Guatemala to anyone? I don’t know why Guatemala comes to mind. Maybe because it sounds funny.

Guuuuaaateeemaaalaaa. Guuuuaaateeemaalaa.

Does anyone recognize anyone in the background? That may give me a hint where I was when this picture was taken. Anyone? Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea.

On another note: I am going to a bachelor party tomorrow night. It should be alright. I find that strippers really love me. I don’t know why. I don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that I tell them I am stinkin’ rich. I think it has more to do with my personality.

In retrospect, its probably not such a good idea to post when I am drunk.


Thursday, May 18, 2006

The Cootches in my Life - Mia the Stripper

I know this girl. She’s pretty hot. Her name is Mia. Mia is a stripper who hustles at a far away joint but lives in my neighbourhood.

Once Mia invited me out to smoke some weed. She said it was called Montreal Freeze. I had no idea what that meant, but it was pretty good. We were sitting in my car in a parking lot, outside a bar, talking. She asked what I did that day. I told her I was watching season 5 of the Gilmore Girls when she called me. "Gilmore Girls!?!?" she remarked, "you like that show!? That’s almost as bad as Dawson’s Creek". I told her "I like watching Dawson’s Creek too".

We started drinking at the bar. I let Mia order for us both. She would alternate between cocktails and rounds of shots. The shots were fucking gross - Tequila Rose, Tequila straight up, some other shit with lemon on the glass that tasted like someone’s dirty ass mixed with burnt hair. Anyway, we got wasted. It was fun. Guys were staring at Mia’s fake breasts all night. That was fun. I thought I was gonna throw up. That wasn’t as much fun.

The above is in no way an endorsement of fake breasts. In fact, to tell you the truth, I'm not really a fan of fake breasts at all. They're always too hard and there is never any guarantee they'll be pointing in the right direction or have the proper shape. Yeah, that shit just freaks me the fuck out.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

My Friend Mally Can Sleep and Masterbate Like Nobody's Business

I have a friend. His name is Mally. He’s quite a good friend, actually. My friend Mally can sleep and masturbate like nobody’s business. This fact has nothing really to do with the following story but I thought it was interesting none-the-less. On numerous occasions my friend Mally has saved my life. Like the time he tried to kill me but then changed his mind.

I remember once betting Mally he couldn’t chug a mickey of southern comfort. He said he could and told me to get the bottle. I did. He chugged the mickey. The whole thing. Not a drop was left. He looked at me and said "I told you so" then proceeded to throw up on my parents sofa.

There was another time when Mally was so drunk we had to help him into bed. His eyes were closed but he quietly said "I’m gonna throw up". We tried to help him outta bed but he was too heavy to move. He kept on saying "I’m gonna throw uuuuup" and began to upchuck a little in his throat. We frantically looked for anything he could throw up in - a waste basket, a plastic bag, anything. We found nothing. Then, in an inspired moment of thinking "out of the box", I took off one sock and helped Mally place the open end over his mouth. "Here", I said, "use this". "What is it"? he asked as he secured the sock around his mouth. "Its my sock" I said. Mally immediately began to throw up. After he was done, he felt a little better. He tied the open end of the filled sock into a knot and threw it under his bed - where it stayed for the next three weeks.

My friend Mally.

Next up: My friend Mia the stripper.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

IDigHootchandCootch Remakes the Movie “Pretty Woman”

If I was responsible for rewriting the movie "Pretty Woman" it would have been a whole lot better than the shitfest it actually was.

I would have had Julia Roberts transmit some fatal and incurable STD to Richard Gere, and he would be like "Julia, I don’t care I contracted your disease that’s going to kill us both within the next 8 months. I’d rather spend 8 months with you than an eternity with any other woman".

Then Julia would say "Oh Richard, I love you. These are going to be the best 8 months ever".

"That’s right, Julia baby. These ARE going to be the best 8 months ever". Richard would say. Then he would step out in the middle of the street and get hit by a bus.

I, of course, would then win an academy award for best comedy. And my new-found fame would afford me endless nights of debauchery with Bea Arthur and Betty White.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

If Given The Opportunity I'd Make Sweet Sweet Butt-Love With Angela Lansbury

Oops. Did I say Angela Lansbury? I meant to say Courtney Love.

I know, I know, Courtney Love is clearly insane and not all that pretty to begin with (even after all the plastic surgery), but there is something about her that makes me want to bend her over my grandparents plastic covered furniture and go to town on dat ass. Maybe it’s the fact that she looks like the biggest gutter tramp I’ve ever seen and no matter what sick, perverted, disgusting things I suggest I do to her in the sack, she’d always say something like "Mmmm, that sounds like fun. Lets do it, then smoke some crack. Then do it again."

Maybe then she’d sing songs about me instead of that loser from The Strokes. Yes, songs about me because I’m a winner. Songs like "IDigHootchAndCootch, your balls in my mouth taste like Certs breathmints". Yes, if given the opportunity I would certainly make sweet sweet butt love to Courtney love.

Ahhhg, who are we kidding? I’d tap Angela Lansbury too.

Saturday, May 13, 2006

Close Encounters of the Jehovah Kind

It was morning. I was still in bed when I heard the "knock knock knock" on my front door. I ignored the knocking, hoping my unexpected and uninvited visitor would get the hint and fuck off. But no such luck. "KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK" again on the front door but this time even louder. Shit. Who was knocking on my door at the ungodly hour of 11:45am.

I sluggishly dragged myself out of bed and made my way to the front door. My head was spinning. I was still drunk from the night before. I was dressed in nothing but my auxiliary, back-up underwear (underwear that is only worn when all others are still unwashed). Over the years, the acidic sweat of my coujons had eaten away at part of the fabric of my underwear, so as I was walking I noticed my balls were dangling through the two perfectly placed holes where the fabric responsible for nut support previously had been.

I opened the door. It was no one I knew. A gentlemen dressed in a suit, maybe a little older than me and a woman dressed in her Sunday outfit standing a little behind him. She wasn’t bad looking - a little heavy on the make-up but I kinda dig the slutty look.

- "Hi. I’m Kevin and this is my wife Allison and we’ve come to talk to you about the word of god. Have you ever wondered why some of us die at such an early age, yet others go on to live 70, 80, 90 years?"
- "Ughhh?"
- "I’d like to read you a passage from the bible, then answer any questions you may have on what we’ve read. I can even leave behind a few magazines that explore some of the questions you may have about saving your soul. Lets begin - something something something something Jehovah is the real name of god, something something something, all non Jehovahs will burn in hell, something something ..."

My head was spinning at an alarming rate and it may have been the hang-over but I could’ve swore I saw Allison clocking my ‘nads and moistening her lips with her tongue. I tried to make eye contact with her but just then I was hit with a particularly strong wave of nausea. Kevin noticed that I wasn’t feeling very well and interrupted his reading.

- "Are you alright?" He asked
- "Ugh...yeah. Listen, come in for a second". I turned and made my way to the kitchen.
They stepped in. "Ahhh, is everything alright? No one has ever invited us in before".
- "Yeah. Don’t worry. I was drinking a little last night and I’m just getting up now so I need to eat some bread or something. You guys want anything?" I yelled from the kitchen. "I have some Chef Boyardee from last night or some Count Chocula if you want".
- "Oh, ok. No thanks. I guess you just need a little something to absorb the alcohol, huh?"
- "Exactamundo, Kevin. Plus, I met this 65 year old prostitute from Zimbabwe last night. Damn man, I think she may have sucked me dry of all my bodily fluids. I just need to grab a fucking gatorade or something to replenish the electrolytes. But you know what that’s all about, eh, Kev?" I said while looking at Allison.
- "Uhhh listen, IDigHootchAndCootch, maybe its better that me and Allison leave right now. Sorry about coming at not a good time. Maybe we’ll come a little later".
- "No. No, don’t go. I’m looking forward to our discussion. Aren’t you at least gonna leave behind those magazines you promised about saving my soul?"
- "I’m gonna be straight up with you, IDigHootchAndCootch. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about you or your soul. For all I care your kind can burn in hell". And with that Kevin turned around to leave. "Lets go Allison", he said and walked out.

Allison, never having said a word, turned to leave also, but before she did she held up her pinky and her thumb to the side of her face and mouthed the words "call me".

Damn straight, baby. Damn straight.

Kim Jong IL and the Best Homosexual Lover Contest

This is the best post ever written in the history of blogging. For real. It is. What makes it the best post ever written is the fact that I’m writing it. You see, motherfuckers, I am the best at whatever I do. Everything I do is the best. If I was to take a steaming pile of shit on top of my computer, that would be the best steaming pile of shit in the world. No one would be able to match it. So don’t even try.

If there was a Best Male Homosexual Lover Contest I would win that too. Even tho I’m not homo. Like I said before (another blog), I am a raging heterosexual!! RAGING, I TELL YOU...but I would still win that contest. I would do things in the Best Homosexual Lover Contest that would never have been done before in the history of dude on dude sex.

The PA announcer for the contest would say "Next up, we have IDigHootchandCootch and his Homosexual Lover Contest Partner - KIM JONG IL. Take centre stage please gentlemen and commence butt-love when ready".

Knowing that Kim Jong would be a tough nut to crack, I’d bust out the "A" material right off the bat. I would have Kim Jong on the verge of passing out within the first 15 seconds...20 tops. He’d be struggling to maintain consciousness as I pleasured him into a near comatose state. He would say things like: "goodness, I never knew you could do that with your 10 fingers, 2 gerbils a bowling pin and my anus. You're quite talented, Mr IDigHootchandCootch".

"Call me Papi (Spanish), you sick fuck". I’d say as I unleashed the gerbils.

Anyway, long story short, I’d win that competition then proceed to kick Kim Jong in the face (perhaps repeatedly). No, not because I engaged in homosexual acts with him and I wanted to reassert my raging heterosexuality. I’d kick Kim Jong in the face because he’s kind of a douche.

The End.

PS. I'm the best.