A quick way to get rid of that annoying knee hair -- dump your motorcycle. Seriously, it works. Sure, your knee ends up a little welty, red and sore, but it's a smoother than baby ass type of welty red and sore. Shit, the follicles are gone. Even better, since I have four hairless knees now.
My motorcycle has this thing where, if I even think about using the front brake on anything other than pristine asphalt, it dumps me on my ass (or knees in this case). I've come to the point where I'm so ninja-fucking-adept, feet fly off the pegs and are lying on the ground next to me before the bike even comtemplates dumping its lardy gas filled ass on my righteous self. All the bike could manage was softly lying down on one foot (one of my feet. Attached to one of my legs).
When I got the bike up, all four-hundred-fucking-million pounds of it, and started it -- wait, it didn't start. It sputtered, like a little baby. A fat annoying sputtering baby. The kind of baby Gabe would punch in the face. The battery wanted to be a jerk, a fat baby jerk and wouldn't turn over the engine. Jerk. It would turn on the lights, CPU and turn signals, but no way it would turn on the engine. Battery, you're a cunt. a jerky-cunt. A jerky-cunt fat baby jerk.
I swear my bike is cursed. Miss Cleo cursed my bike. I swear to Allah, Jesus and Lemmy.
With the bike not turning over, like the fat baby jerk it was, I left it and walked down the road past five houses (they all seemed to be full of sleeping people) until one that had that heartwarming blue vaccuum tube glow filling up the front room jumped over the horizon and went "OOGA-BOOGA" in my face. Houses are fat baby jerks.
Girl inside of house looks outside of house and sees dusty "retro post-apoocalyptic skater" guy standing outside of house. Girl inside of house gives guy outside of house uncomfortable look. Guy asks for phone. Girl invites guy in.
That's it, the story doesn't get an more blowjobby than "girl invites guy in." I used the phone and I left. You're all pervs. Not fat baby jerk pervs, but you're still all pervs.
Phoning CAA (it's pronounced "KKKHHHHAAAAAAA", like the American Automobile Association's acronym is pronouced "AAAAAAAHHHHHHH") led to new hilarity. CAA had no idea where this house was. CAA had no idea where Shannonville road was. CAA had no idea where the 401 was. CAA seemed very nice, but very confused. CAA flipped through some paper maps noisily, trying to make it look like CAA was working dilligently to find out just where the hell I was on this planet. CAA, that paper map thing is ghetto. CAA really needs to work on getting some of that crazy internet GPS hooplah. CAA eventually found where I was and sent out a truck that would meet me at the motorcyle in 20 minutes. CAA wanted to call back, but I don't think the girl who didn't give a blowjob would have appreciated me giving out her phone number to KKHHHHAAAAAAAA.
The truck that didn't have allen keys to get the battery compartment open or a 6 volt compatible battery jumping thingamabob arrived within the time estimated. KKKHHHHAAAA doesn't actually send drivers out with tools, so if your car is sort of broken, you are sort of fucked. The driver and I tried push starting the motorcycle which must have looked retarded, me being a light-weight and he being older than god. The driver (older than god) suggested that a flatbed truck come pick me, my motorcycle and Irene up. Being a fan of complete-fucking-overkill, I agreed that a giant-as-all-fuck flatbed that had carried a 26 foot-long motorhome the week previous was a great idea. He (older than god) left. I waited around another half hour with every mosquito on the entire indian reserve under a street light. Mosquitos are social, but they don't know how to party. All they know how to do is suck, and they don't even give blowjobs. Mosquitos are fat baby jerks.
When you're waiting somewhere and you've got a funny haircut, an armoured jacket and a motorcycle, people think you're waiting to kick someone's ass. Sitting across from the car-pool parking didn't help out with that much. People moved really fast with that whole car-pooling thing, except for one guy in a diesel dualie. He sat in his truck waiting for me to do something. What the fuck was I going to do? I've got a dead motorcycle and bugs flying up my pants and nibbling my testicles. Other than smacking myself in the crotch, I'm not going to do much.
Come to think of it, that's a pretty good reason for someone to stare.
Anyway, the flatbed came and it ends up this driver had also ridden motorcycles -- past tense. "Yeah, I used to ride until I fell off a cliff". Now that is the studliest reason to ever stop doing something. "Yeah, I used to crochet, until I fell off a cliff" -- see? Fucking studly. I guess he got better though, what, with the tow-truck driving and all. Definitely not a cripple or a fat baby jerk.
He was a nice guy. Gave me a lot of motorcycle tips about towing/caring for/fixing motorcycles. I talked about almost hitting a deer an hour earlier, he talked about a raccoon ripping off the heel of his boot -- funny stories about maiming and almost maiming cute and fuzzy animals. MAIMTASTIC.
I'm home now and my knees hurt, but it's nothing twelve or so Redbulls (or blowjobs) couldn't fix. I mean, it's not like I fell off a cliff or something.
--
superhappypornoparty.com's email is fux0r3d, so use the contact tab here to get a hold of me at a new address.
My motorcycle has this thing where, if I even think about using the front brake on anything other than pristine asphalt, it dumps me on my ass (or knees in this case). I've come to the point where I'm so ninja-fucking-adept, feet fly off the pegs and are lying on the ground next to me before the bike even comtemplates dumping its lardy gas filled ass on my righteous self. All the bike could manage was softly lying down on one foot (one of my feet. Attached to one of my legs).
When I got the bike up, all four-hundred-fucking-million pounds of it, and started it -- wait, it didn't start. It sputtered, like a little baby. A fat annoying sputtering baby. The kind of baby Gabe would punch in the face. The battery wanted to be a jerk, a fat baby jerk and wouldn't turn over the engine. Jerk. It would turn on the lights, CPU and turn signals, but no way it would turn on the engine. Battery, you're a cunt. a jerky-cunt. A jerky-cunt fat baby jerk.
I swear my bike is cursed. Miss Cleo cursed my bike. I swear to Allah, Jesus and Lemmy.
With the bike not turning over, like the fat baby jerk it was, I left it and walked down the road past five houses (they all seemed to be full of sleeping people) until one that had that heartwarming blue vaccuum tube glow filling up the front room jumped over the horizon and went "OOGA-BOOGA" in my face. Houses are fat baby jerks.
Girl inside of house looks outside of house and sees dusty "retro post-apoocalyptic skater" guy standing outside of house. Girl inside of house gives guy outside of house uncomfortable look. Guy asks for phone. Girl invites guy in.
That's it, the story doesn't get an more blowjobby than "girl invites guy in." I used the phone and I left. You're all pervs. Not fat baby jerk pervs, but you're still all pervs.
Phoning CAA (it's pronounced "KKKHHHHAAAAAAA", like the American Automobile Association's acronym is pronouced "AAAAAAAHHHHHHH") led to new hilarity. CAA had no idea where this house was. CAA had no idea where Shannonville road was. CAA had no idea where the 401 was. CAA seemed very nice, but very confused. CAA flipped through some paper maps noisily, trying to make it look like CAA was working dilligently to find out just where the hell I was on this planet. CAA, that paper map thing is ghetto. CAA really needs to work on getting some of that crazy internet GPS hooplah. CAA eventually found where I was and sent out a truck that would meet me at the motorcyle in 20 minutes. CAA wanted to call back, but I don't think the girl who didn't give a blowjob would have appreciated me giving out her phone number to KKHHHHAAAAAAAA.
The truck that didn't have allen keys to get the battery compartment open or a 6 volt compatible battery jumping thingamabob arrived within the time estimated. KKKHHHHAAAA doesn't actually send drivers out with tools, so if your car is sort of broken, you are sort of fucked. The driver and I tried push starting the motorcycle which must have looked retarded, me being a light-weight and he being older than god. The driver (older than god) suggested that a flatbed truck come pick me, my motorcycle and Irene up. Being a fan of complete-fucking-overkill, I agreed that a giant-as-all-fuck flatbed that had carried a 26 foot-long motorhome the week previous was a great idea. He (older than god) left. I waited around another half hour with every mosquito on the entire indian reserve under a street light. Mosquitos are social, but they don't know how to party. All they know how to do is suck, and they don't even give blowjobs. Mosquitos are fat baby jerks.
When you're waiting somewhere and you've got a funny haircut, an armoured jacket and a motorcycle, people think you're waiting to kick someone's ass. Sitting across from the car-pool parking didn't help out with that much. People moved really fast with that whole car-pooling thing, except for one guy in a diesel dualie. He sat in his truck waiting for me to do something. What the fuck was I going to do? I've got a dead motorcycle and bugs flying up my pants and nibbling my testicles. Other than smacking myself in the crotch, I'm not going to do much.
Come to think of it, that's a pretty good reason for someone to stare.
Anyway, the flatbed came and it ends up this driver had also ridden motorcycles -- past tense. "Yeah, I used to ride until I fell off a cliff". Now that is the studliest reason to ever stop doing something. "Yeah, I used to crochet, until I fell off a cliff" -- see? Fucking studly. I guess he got better though, what, with the tow-truck driving and all. Definitely not a cripple or a fat baby jerk.
He was a nice guy. Gave me a lot of motorcycle tips about towing/caring for/fixing motorcycles. I talked about almost hitting a deer an hour earlier, he talked about a raccoon ripping off the heel of his boot -- funny stories about maiming and almost maiming cute and fuzzy animals. MAIMTASTIC.
I'm home now and my knees hurt, but it's nothing twelve or so Redbulls (or blowjobs) couldn't fix. I mean, it's not like I fell off a cliff or something.
--
superhappypornoparty.com's email is fux0r3d, so use the contact tab here to get a hold of me at a new address.
VIEW 13 of 13 COMMENTS
filmme:
happy motherfucking birthday.
kelland:
hey hey, saw it was your birthday today... and it's mine as well! yeehaw! 