Question

Would you rather:

Take Shawn Johnson's virginity, while wearing her team all-around Silver Medal from Beijing. It would happen at her parents house in Iowa, in Shawn's bed, shortly after a family dinner you were invited to. Mrs. Johnson cooked pork chops. The meal was unremarkable, but you won them all over with strong, America-centric conversation. Dessert was a microwaved Snickers bar. The sex would be forgettable and brief, except for Mr. Johnson breaking in announcing that there were extra Snickers bars only to witness his prized child's innocence being lost. You'd be tried and acquitted on statutory rape and have to register as a sex offender, but only in Iowa.

or

Beat the hell out of Rihanna and have amazing make up sex. Do no be fooled by the term make up sex. The term implies a level of commitment/relationship, which their wouldn't be. It'd be a simple case of love at first sight at a local Dunkin Donuts. Rihanna, battling weight issues, would be in line ordering 50 glazed munchkins, only to learn that she left her wallet in her flat (you'd come to find that in an effort to be more refined, she frequently uses British phrases, which appears cute at firsts). She asks you to spare a few quid. You pay for the small donuts, order a black coffee (though you feel racist doing so), and proposition sharing the donuts together in the park. She accepts. You laugh, you cry, you swoon. She invites you back to her apartment. The elevator is broken, which works out well as the 11 story stairwell trip acts as foreplay and you're both nearly naked by the top. Once inside you're amazed by the space and compliment her taste. She appreciates it, but is humble only to complain that the lift is always out and that she over paid for her flat. In some Mel Gibson, Patriot-like, rage you snap and hit her. Again. And again. She doesn't fight back and in some masochistic state continues to rant on and on, between blows, in a street urchin British accent. The violence turns into sex and the ranting turns into raving. By the end you're fairly convinced you just slept with Oliver Twist and question your sexuality. Rihanna's father presses charges, which are dropped, but TMZ goes wild with the story. They find a picture of you and airbrush braces on to you and circle the news. You never see her again, though you nostalgically go to the same Dunkin Donuts and order munchkins once a week for a year.

Promise

I understand that I made an Lenten Promise to blog each day until Easter. I took yesterday off on purpose to piss off Kevin Roche--sorry Jesus.

To be completely honest, I am at a loss of personal opinion, sexual conquests, and bigotry at the moment. It could be a reflection of the frigid winter that is just now beginning to leave us, the pseudo depression caused by less air time for Shawn Johnson, or the dull drum of reality eroding the creativity I once possessed. I truly believed that this Lenten Promise would act as a sort of mental pro-biotic yogurt, flushing the writers' block from my constipated mind. It hasn't. I honestly expected, firm, concise, and remarkable BM's (Brain Movements) from the promise, but have instead found myself stooling for hours on how to keep right with the Lord.

Perhaps dipping will help. Until then, grab the paper and push--this is going to be a while.

CWG

Lent

It's amazing that after 24 years of celebrating my Catholicism, when convenient, I still have no idea what the purpose of "Lent" is. If I were Jewish, I would have used that for a lentil joke, but seeing as I am going to Heaven, I'll refrain. Despite my complete understanding of my faith, combined with a Calvinistic approach to Catholicism, I am fairly certain that I am supposed to give something up that I feel takes away from the well being of my faith.

After some speculation, I was on the cusp of forgoing my newfound obsession with gonzo-facial-choke-porn for the duration, but found myself feeling that instead of depriving my soul of it's one true need, I could add something to it: writing.

As Jewish God as my witness, I declare my Lenten Promise to blog everyday. Sinners.

Livestrong

No, this isn't some twisted story about some twisted Livestrong braclet being used as a cock ring--this is actually about Lance Armstrong. I've been single for a few months now and after a short period of self loathing and grief I decided to get back on the bike. Though of course the last time I was on a bike I was 8 years old, but a content 8 years old. I remembered the days of racing my Mongoose home from school, wind through my hair, wrist guards tight, yet secure, with the only worry in the world being if Mom had bought more tickle targets. Surely, with a bike seat canvassing my ass cheeks I could be happy again.

I did what all great athletes do before a comeback: bought lots of spandex. Surprisingly, it was my spandex suit. I had always been able to borrow my college roommates snug-wear secretly and Rochelle's publicly, so there had never been a need for the aforementioned purchase.

There's something about a man's first spandex suit. I'm not sure if it's the way it speaks to the world or the way it embraces you like mothers arm at every inch, but its that firm handshake that assures a man he is no longer a boy. It was this this feeling that I jogged walked to Boston Sports Club and mounted my first mechanical bike.

The experience, as you can imagine, was at first miserable. My lungs hurt, my legs hurt, my spandex moistened, and my head and heart were still in dissaray. It wasn't until Allanis Morrisett's "Ironic" music video came on the screen that my attitude began to change. It wasn't until those angelicly soggy, Steve Tyler-esque lips began creeching out irresponsible babble that I began to realize why Lance does what Lance does. The compination of the awkwardly attractive 40-something, combined with the piston like motion of my legs, raised to teh exponent of spandex that I achieved my most rapid erection in my life. A quarter mile later I had came. By the end of the song my spandex-pants-shorts were soaked.

Mind clear and heart content I causually wiped my mechanical stead somewhat dry and went on my way. The only thing Lance was ever one was viagra. Pervert.

Second Wind

Though my pen has been quiet, I can promise you that my thoughts have been deafening. It's been over a year since I last put ink to parchment and it seems as though the once chaotic, intoxicating world I once knew is no more. Don't fret children; don't fret.

Despite the collapse that engulfed me, both physically and emotionally, nearly crippled me, I can say, with confidence, that the revival of this blog will surely prove to the first of the ashes to fall from the revived Pheonix. Single, slightly more bald, and exponentially more shrewd, I am ready, once again, to use too many commas, place semi-colons inappropriately; though well intentioned, and have my life documented for the world (ie Kevin Roche) to follow.

I've been told that irrelevance can be irrevocable. In the fear of becoming yet another 20 something professional with a loose grip on reality, but a firm grasp on glory, I felt it necessary to once again to cement my psychosis through blog.

Currently, I have nothing of value to share now, but I'd hate to blue ball my readers so here's a prompt update: I'm single, I live with Bill, we've discussed tinkle targets at length, nocturnal fluids are at an all time high (this includes tears), I've gone through a series of George Michael's phases and each time come out "okay", the Rangers are in first place, I've maintained a decent success rate in avoiding Michael (who is now Speed's boss), I'm well read on natural hair loss reversal projects, I've found myself more and more attracted to personified Disney female animal characters and subsequently have written a series of letters to fatheads about the lack of Nala wall decor, I've developed a fear of both heights and depths, I'm excited to have a president in office who can wear purple well, I've joined Oprah's book club, and have developed an inexplicable disdain towards the Haam brothers.

This confession has meant nothing.

Drive Safe

First off, there is still more to the previous caught story, much more. I have been making a conscious, and at times subconscious, effort to change the style and diction of the blog. Instead of a ranting rave, I’ve gone for a more thorough, carefully constructed, and spell checked prose. I recently came to the realization that I need to find a balance between the two, on occasion. Now is that occasion. Enjoy.
Secondly, if any employer, parent, or anyone of relative significance is reading this: I have absolutely no connection to Michael, whatsoever.
Thricely, lets digress. It occurred to me close to a week ago, while taking down the brunch order for the Allston Girl Scouts Troop 419, that I have never received road-head. Furthermore, I realized that the likely hood of this actually happening seems impossible at this juncture in my life. Not only had the ship that represented road-head sailed, but it was sinking, if not sunk. Thought it wasn’t impossible in the sense that Lady wouldn’t fellate me on the freeway, but impossible that I could convince someone to let me borrow their car, get my drivers license, or actually purchase a car. Though the constant focus on oral elation helped me nail the brunch order, it haunted me for the rest of the week. Was I destined to become the guy that never got road head? And if I actually got road head, could I perform? (See post entitled 'Felatio-uh-oh' if you don't follow me here. If you read it and still don't follow and your name doesn’t rhyme with Varco Valfieri, kill yourself)
After an aggressive period of self loathing, I realized that with most my sexual encounters, I'm far from a lone wolf. Though unbeknownst to the general population, wet dreams, erectile dysfunction, and brief stints of homosexuality are plaguing America's collegiate males. I think.
The only thing that helped to inoculate this sexual inclination was the following week. Same scenario. Slightly different. Whilst taking the lunch order for a Brighton’s Boy Scouts Troop 167, I realized that I have never had a threesome either. It’s amazing what we can learn from children.
So there I was: bow-tied, sweating, aware of my lack of sexual conquest, balancing three half-orders of chicken parm. I felt like a less artistic, more depressed moment from Picasso's Blue Period. I double majored in art history, ya dig?
Being proactive, I made sure not to dwell on this further inefficiency. Instead, I tried to create a hybrid train of thought to combine the problems: I have never double teamed a girl while driving. I mean who has? It seems normal to be a virgin in this situation, right? The sweat broke, the loathing left, and my energy levels perked.
The single lesson that I've lived and learned to the fullest since graduation is that with each ebb there is a flow, and for each flow an ebb. Being fairly confident that the self-fulfillment of sexual sincerity was a flow of good karma, I kept vigil waiting for the requisite ebb. The sweat returned.
I was closing the restaurant the night it happened. The night the ebb came. In psychology they call it a break through, for me it was a break down. I was in the kitchen on "cholo" duty doing my best not to get stabbed, posting up next to the industrial sized mixing pots, when approached by my co-"worker".

"Yo homes, think you can hand me that?"
"Hand..."
"Ya homes, hand me that pot, yo."
"Hand…?"
"Yo ese, are you retard or something? Hand me that pot, yo!"
"Haaaand!"
"..."

A symbolic rock of stryc-9 slipped off my spinal column, triggering a near out of body flash back. Summer. Nantucket. Intoxicated. Confused. Driving. Aroused. Kyle passed out in the backseat of his own two-door Blazer; most likely about to wet himself, but blissfully ignorant that I have deemed myself most qualified to drive us home. A young lady cognizant in the front seat. Cute? Maybe. For the sake of legality, we'll assume 18 years of old, but at the very least capable of reading at a college level. A forth companion sits in the middle of the backseat. He appears more aware, less drunk, and probably more apt to be driving, but his lack of assertiveness has landed him yonder. And of course, the cancer of the carpool, Hayden sits directly behind me. My hand is gripping the wheel with amazing resolved. The combination of loose steering, disconcerting palm sweat, and a cool buzz, we race in whatever direction Hayden commands. The only things more frantic then our onboard navigator are my middle and ring finger as they work furiously at the loins of my shotgun companion. My handling worsens as she manually reciprocates the effort. Hayden quiets. Kyle wets. The fourth, who now annoys me, is wide-eyed and pale, obviously aware of the situation in the front seat. The sound of friction on dry skin soon drowns out the static classic rock that escapes the speakers until I climax, applying my amateur armorall to the steering wheel. Bringing the car to a halt in some dark and unremarkable parking lot, the mutual masturbation in the front seat culminates, yet the same sound continues. The unknown quiet companion nearly hurdles the young lady, who I now believe to be my girlfriend, escaping through the open window. The abrasive soundtrack continues. Slowly rotating 180 degrees, the sound stops, the music returns, as well as a gush of enthusiasm from our navigator all over the back of my seat.

Double road-hand: the pseudo equivalent of road head and a threesome. I had done it, well, technically. Two birds with one stone. Take it from me; the only thing better than killing birds is saving rocks!


Elbows up, side-to-side,
Gotty

Caught

I had just gotten off a double at VTs. The smell of sweet and garlic and followed me all the way home. Thank God it was a Thursday, Lady’s girl’s night out night. That meant no awkward, unfulfilled foreplay, no conversation, just sleep. I disrobed, admired my profile, penis, and went over the bedside table ready to put on a little night cap on. No, I wasn’t pouring myself a cognac to easy my trip to dreamland; I was reaching for a condom so that I could sleep soundly without worrying about soiling the sheets with another wet dream. Opening the drawer and reaching inside the industrial sized box of condoms, I touched not greasy foil, but a quarter folded sheet of office paper. When opening the crudely created card, I was greeted with 2 haunting words, ‘I know.’

“I know.” What the fuck could she know? Besides rudimentary survival skills, I’m more or less convinced that Lady is brain dead or is and has been suffering from post-concussion syndrome that only Trent Green could relate to for the entirety of our relationship. Nonetheless, she knows something, something that she feels necessary to transcribe in crayon. What could be so important to warrant crayon? Personally, I would just shout the information at increasing decibels until everyone within earshot was aware of my knowledge, but crayon, never crayon.
I told her that I didn’t actually graduate, so there would be no need to re-emphasize that. She knows that I work at the Italian equivalent of McDonalds, so that would be no surprise. Michael? The thought races through my mind, as a cool sweat forms on my brow, could she know Michael? The fear dies down and an awesome wave of relaxation takes over: no one knows Michael. Ha.

I needed an expert opinion. Not know any, I called Brian.