Lotta Hustle

Right. Let's see what we have going on for the post today. Looks like we have some incoherent nonsense. That'll be fun. Then we have some shit I find funny, but I might need to work on it because every time I write something I find funny K-Luv thinks I am depressed, or serious or seriously depressed. It looks like that segment today involves some current events/racial slurs. Good. The people always like that. And finally if we have time, we will get into some of that which makes you slap at your groin because my words make your dingle tingle. But first I have an important news update.
Tell your friends because this is going to be big. From here on out, Thursday's post will be a letter and response. More specifically, it will be Yossarian's advice column. So AIM me or email me (my email address is the same as my AIM only it's @yahoo.com) your query and you will receive sage-like advice. So if you have a problem, and not even tiny classified ads can help, if there is no one else to call, then think of me as the A-Team of advice. If I receive no query, then thank you because I get the day off.
I'm starting to peak now Al. Good. But soon he will be dead and you will listen to classical music on your car stereo and mom will drink whole milk while your father and I fall asleep watching The Greatest American Hero. Only we would have to be at your house, because I don't own a TV.
The dark guy comes to install my Internet. Thank fucking Christ. He is laughing at me because I don't have a TV so I don't need cable. But as he is doing his job he stumbles across some pictures I have laying on my desk. One of these alleged pictures is of me and a Puerto Rican I dated in grad school. "She looks familiar," he said. "Well, she lives in Puerto Rico," I said. I was simply trying to explain something about her to maybe jog his memory in case he did know her. "I am Columbian. Not Puerto Rican or Mexican or Bolivian or anything else you might think!" Emphatic he was. Thank you. Thank you for making this uncomfortable you fucking twit. You sure are Columbian. I suppose they started teaching the Jersey accent in Columbian schools years ago you dip shit. Thank you for informing me that you are Columbian and I am a lazy American incapable of discerning the subtleties of the differences between the people of the Latin world during the two minutes I was going to be slightly aware of your existence you fucking nimrod. No. I can't tell you apart and no I don't fucking care. Can you find Puerto Rico on a map? No? Is that why you are installing my Internet? Twat.
How she was self-conscious was beyond me. To this day I cannot comprehend what made her insecure. You could tell in how she walked she didn't like being in her skin. You could also tell by how others looked at her that anyone would have wanted to be in her skin. I would sit there and watch her and envision drinking from waters that ran off her legs. I prayed for the function of her sweat glands to be replaced by my tongue. I would keep her cool. I would sit behind her and smell her hair and want to grab her and hold her down with on had on the nape of her neck of hand pulling her hair to arch her back up making it easier for me to be inside her and bless the area in between her ribs with my lips. She was the catalyst for emotions I never knew I had. I didn't deserve to be in the same species as her. None of us do. She was too ashamed to make any noise when she would cum. She would just roll her eyes and close them as her mouth opened and her entire body contracted and relaxed. Then she would smile as I would start again and she always wondered why I wanted so badly to please her. She never understood that the collective orgasms of the history of man were an iota of the feeling that she gave me simply by me knowing she existed.