how do you say "sugar-daddy" in arabic?

First off, I want to apologize to you, dear reader, for not providing you with adequate frequency the extremely clever and sexually perverted discursive mouth-shit-via-keyboard that I promised myself to deliver. However, as they say, "quality, not quantity."

(Or is it the other way around? It is the other way around, isn't it? In that case, I should really just go fuck myself. But first! the post must be completed.)

Thus: the post

I'd like to talk about Max Siegel. Well not really. But he asked me to. So I'll say "Happy birthday, Max Siegel. I love you." But that's really all I've got for you, Mr. Siegel. So sorry, Mr. Siegel. Perhaps next time, Mr. Siegel.

In the meantime, let me talk to you about any number of things. Say, for example, Starbucks, the coffee there.

Ah. I can't complain. I got a three dollar drink there this evening for a single dollar. They hooked me up. Good folks, those Starbucks folks. And the one on campus doesn't even have a tip jar because half of the workers are unionized. So the students who work there get fucked.

But I don't really care enough to bitch about the unionized Aramark workers or the students who get fucked. I honestly don't. They're a good bunch of folks. All of them. Make some decent food, serve it, swipe my little university ID so that I can eat it. No qualms with them. It's the fuckers who design the meal plans that we have to pay hundreds of dollars more than necessary for that really chisels my rockwall...

But I don't really give a shit about them. Doesn't really float my boat. Fuel my engine. Turn my TV on. Stroke my ass. Nay, dearest reader, it doth not.

So I'm back to blogging about blogging. Here's the deal:

As of Saturday, May 10 2008, I will be resuming my position as a real estate agent at an agency whose name I will not divulge. Why won't I divulge it? Let me count the reasons:

1. It got a shitty review on some stupid website by some stupid girl. My boss knows who this girl is, and I can tell by her post the type of client she must have been, so I can certainly say without a shadow of a doubt that she should tie a cinder block to both feet and throw them off of a fucking cliff. What's the point of telling you this? The point is that the last thing I need is for this godforsaken assfuck of a blog to come up every time someone types in the name of my company. One stupid asshole has already stained our reputation enough. I don't need to be number two.

2. The first reason is really the best reason. But other than that, I should note that if I were to tell you what company it was that I worked for, it would mean that I would be telling the truth. What's wrong with telling the truth? Absolutely nothing. In fact I fully endorse truth-telling at every juncture. Yes, at every juncture indeed. The problem is that once you know where I work, you might believe that I am actually a real person. This is especially problematic if you already know me in person. (I'm not exactly sure what that means). On the other hand, I'm not sure why I'm trying to protect my anonymity. You've seen the shit-eating picture of me to your right if you've been paying half a donkey's asshair of attention. If you haven't, you're probably better off anyways. Now would be as good a time as any to navigate away to another page, because I sure as hell am not going uphill from here. And no, that isn't some sort of reverse-psychology tactic. If you've made it this far, you've got enough time to waste that I figure you're already going to finish the rest.

3. I don't even remember what the hell I was making a list about.

4. Even though I don't really say anything offensive enough to make anyone want to come and kill me, I am an extremely paranoid person and do not wish to tempt fate. Therefore, if you were to discover the secret location of my place of work, you could come plant a bomb under my desk and blow my testicles out of my chair and out the door. And my stomach. And legs. And other sorts of body parts as well. But it's the testicles I'm really worried about.

5. I was watching a James Bond film today for a class (Goldfinger, specifically), and I realize that one of the only times I've ever seen Bond afraid is when his nuts are in harms way. You can tell that he freaks out when the laser moves towards his cock, about the butterfly that shit like it was last nights flank steak. I love it. But seriously, take my feet if you want them. Maybe I could find a good foot fetishist to buy one of my feet. They're not much in the way of feet, but shit, a foot for sale is a foot for sale.

6. The starting bid on my left foot is $75,000. The starting bid on my right foot is $95,000. Listen, you put those puppies through 17 years of soccer training and you'd sure as hell charge between $50,00-100,000 mark too... not that those 17 years did any good, but it's a matter of principle, you know?

7. eBay page to follow in next post.

8. There is a body lotion at Bath and Body works called warm vanilla sugar. I wouldn't know, but I highly recommend it.

Love,

David