Random Thought Of The Day #663

Day 663

I miss the days of cheap gas. And by cheap gas, I'm talking late 90's where I actually got pissed off when gas went from 82.9 cents to 83.9 cents a gallon.

But not for what you might think. Yeah, I mean... Saving a shitload of money compared to the 400% more we pay for it now (in the last 12 years. Thanks, washington political assholes! And thanks to you enviro-douches too. This is your fault) but that's not really why.

No, the reason why is because it's no longer really an option of just getting in the car and getting lost. Intentionally. Like, get in the car, and start driving and then start taking random roads that you've never been on before and just exploring. It's just not really a feasible option anymore. And that sucks. Because I always loved exploring. So much.

And well, I also loved that I could hit Sheetz, fill up my Jeep from the needle on E and still get a couple hotdogs and a pack of smokes for under $20. Once again... fuck you, politicians. I couldn't do that for under $50 now. Assholes. I'm not talking about the 70's here. I'm talking about a decade ago! Fuckers.

But I digress. I'm starting to get pissed about how much these motherfuckers have messed with the cost of living in just a decade. And that's not what I'm here for today.

Now, I could keep going with like another 2000 words on WHY I love exploring, but I think I'll tell you an exploring story instead.

It was near the end of the "able to just get in the car and drive forever and not worry about the gas" phase. About summer of 2000 or so. A pretty clear night. Warm but not hot. One of those just really awesome nights to be out and doing shit. Well, we were bored as fuck. My buddy PrettyBoy, and I (I've got to get myself in the habit of using nicknames now. I'm not paying anyone fucking money for using their real names in the book and I need to get used to doing this now) decided to just hop in the car and go for a drive.

Now... the thing to keep in mind about PrettyBoy was exactly how apt of a name for this dude that is is. He is the definition of suburban yuppie. If you don't know him (and even if you do), he's one of those dudes that you see and instantly hate. The kind that you just have an uncontrollable urge to punch. Wildly self-conscious about how he looks. Would spend an hour on his hair to do the same thing that I, at the time, could manage to do with mine in like 8 seconds. Delicate features. Almost feminine in some ways. But more male Abercrombie model, but a little skinnier. Kind of yuppie meets hipster, without being fucking dirty. Wore scarves like 2 years before even the hipsters decided that was "cool". Spent way too god damn much money on clothes and was always stylish. As I said, totally image-conscious and was about half-way on his way to being Patrick Bateman (seriously. If you don't get the reference... go google that shit) before he was even 20.

I had no idea how you could be that tightly wound at that age and not go on a killing spree. Well, his method for avoiding that was to smoke pot. A LOT of pot.  And by a lot, I mean everything got celebrated with "let's smoke a bowl!". There was the "I just woke up" bowl. There was the "I made breakfast (cereal)" bowl. There was the "I got in the car!" bowl. There was the "I just smoked a bowl" bowl.

Yeah. A lot of pot.

What does this have to do with the story? You'll see.

So this given evening that I was starting to write about, PrettyBoy and I got in the car and just kinda started wandering around. He was driving, which was weird, but I kinda let it go. To this day, driving aimlessly and NOT being the driver is still weird to me. Hell, just not being the driver is weird to me. But I was ok with it this night. But whatever. We started driving.

A few weeks earlier, we had come across one particular back road out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. And we kinda wanted to go back to it. There was about a half dozen really cool looking roads off of it, but we had picked one the previous time and kinda wanted to explore the other ones now.

So, we ventured off in that direction, but not entirely sure exactly where we were going. Through the magic of my awesomness, and potentially some blood and oxygen and other useful things mixing in with the little bit of THC and alot of alcohol coursing thru my veins and brain, we managed to find our way back to this road. Maybe that's why I wasn't driving. Already drunk before we left.

I immediately decided that this road on the right looked fucking awesome to drive on. And I wanted to be on it right the fuck now. So instead of simplly saying "turn here"... no... that would be too easy. No, instead I reach across the god damn car and grab the wheel and just turn the car while he's trying to light a cigarette. Looking back now, I have no idea how we didn't die. Or how I managed to do it without us even going out of control at all.

Well, somehow, he just reacted as though this was as normal as him turning the wheel. And calmly kept going. I'm pretty sure that, had anyone else been in the car, they would have lost their god damned minds. But nope... was perfectly normal. What does that say about my life or my friends?

Well, after another half hour of driving and just picking random roads and becoming completely and totally lost, we realize that we haven't seen even a house in at least 15 minutes. No houses. No lights. Nothing. We're really in bumfuck nowhere. And almost as soon as we realized this, we came upon a stretch of road that had 8 foot corn stalks on both sides of the road.

Fuck. I've seen too many horror movies that start like this. And by start like this, I mean the idiot 20-somethings that get killed in the first 15 minutes of the movie before someone either 1) comes to look for them; or 2) get used as the story that some dude, 2 years later, tells his buddies as he takes them there and he tries to scare them by talking about the people that got massacred in the cornfield a year or 2 back. Yeah... fuck. Those idiot 20-somethings were us. Great.

Well about half way thru this gigantic clusterfuck of corn that we can't see over, we hit a 4 way insteresction. 3 of the ways to go... it's more fucking corn. The other way? No corn. Trees. Yeah... I wanted nothing to do with the fucking corn anymore. I'm picking fucking trees. I can deal with trees. Fuck corn.

But so, as the road winds thru the trees, we all of a sudden see a sign for a town. Kinda. It's made out of a 10 foot sheet of plywood and nailed between 2 trees. And someone had spraypainted a name on it.

Brownstown.

They even spraypainted a population. That had been sprayed over in black at least once and then re-painted with a brush. Classy. Or wait... fuck. This is where it turns into the horror movie. Sonuvabitch. That was why all the rest of the ways were corn. So you'd get fucking lost when you came out of the tree road. Cause you'd forget which fucking way got you home. Yeah... we're totally screwed.

Well, in my infinite wisdom, and with absolutely no fear of consequences... and probably a deathwish based on the shit I'd done in the prior few years and would keep doing for a few more years beyond that, I decided that we needed to investigate this place. Brownstown. I'd never heard of this place. Granted, I didnt' have a fucking clue where I was, but hey... that's what exploration is about. Finding new cool shit.

We turned down this road and a few seconds later are presented by ... well... I still dont' know how to describe it. It was trailer park meets campground meets scrap yard meets dirtbike tail. And then someone managed to spill the rest of the bottle of redneck on it. I was waiting to find the Thunderdome in the middle of this place. Everything was just totally ghetto. The only thing that prevented you from confusing this place with Compton or Detroit were the trees on the perimeter... well, and the white people.

We quickly learned that "this place" was only about 4 streets wide with 3 cross streets. And the way we came in was also the only way out. Except this motherfucking place was a god damn maze. We started driving thru it and quickly realized, even with it being a grid, this place was like the god damned bermuda triangle. My internal compass just started spinning. Everywhere was north. I had no idea how to get out. So we kept driving.

Oh, and that's about when we fianlly stumbled upon the natives. Fantastic. And by natives, I mean natives. You ever hear about those tribes in South America in the Amazon that have never even had contact with the outside world? They don't trade with the outside world They've probably never even seen a white person?

That's how this felt. I don't think they'd ever seen anything like PrettyBoy before. I think he had more teeth showing when he smiled than they all did combined.

And that's when I decided that we needed to party here. Because this was going to be awesome.

We had just about past a trailer that had a detached garage and light pouring out of the open garage door. And as we're approaching, I hear this awful twang of hillbilly sister-fucking music coming out of some musical contraption that I didn't even want to ponder the shock hazards of. And as we're passing, I look at the garage and see a half dozen people inside, playing beer pong. And another half dozen on the porch. Oh, we definitely need to party here. And I'm going to make this happen.

I force PrettyBoy to pull over. Well, force might be a little off base. We were doing about 5 mph on this shitty dirt horse path that passed for a motor vehicle thruway and I simply opened the passenger door and stepped out. While moving. I didn't give a fuck. I didn't even say anything to him. I just got out and started approaching the chainlink fence and barking dogs that really weren't held back by the fence, since the fence only covered about 1/3 of the front yard.

I guess my ridiculous exit caught everyone by surprise... PrettyBoy included. Because he slammed on the brakes and stopped and parked in the middle of the road just as I was getting to the front porch and being stared at by natives with a look of shock and curiousity. I could see the gear in their brain working. They only had one. And it was trying to process a number of questions at once.

"Who dis guy in dem fancy britches wit them perty teef and mouf?" "What he want?" "Where's my sister? I want a blowjob" and any number of other hillbilly world problems... like "copenhagen vs skoal" or "Is my daddy my brother or my brother my daddy?" or whatever else they think about.

But I walk over and wave and loudly say "Hello! We were just driving past and wondered if we could join your game of beer pong?"

PrettyBoy is just stepping out of the car at this moment. And think of the look I just got... multiply it by a billion and that's the one PrettyBoy got.

They were in shock. I don't think they had a clue how to respond. And simply nodded as we walked right into the garage and stepped up to their recently finished pong game.

"Who's next?" I say and I grab the cups and set up.

I have no idea how the fuck we got out of there. The actual evenings events were rather uneventful. It was a typical night.  We ran the table on these guys a couple times. And I'm pretty sure someone's mother/sister/daughter/alloftheabove tried to talk to me at some point. But I couldn't hear her over the amount of cum probably still swirling in her mouth from her cousin and the gigantic side-chew she had in. Or maybe that lump was from someone punching her for not having dinner ready. I don't know. But eventually, we decided to be off.

PrettyBoy never even moved the car out of the middle of the road. For 2 hours. And nobody ever drove by. We'd have known. Cause it was barely wide enough for 1 car, much less 2.

It took us about another half hour to find out way back out of this fucking place. Only one road in or out, but this fucking place was a maze. Finally though, we ventured out and manged to somehow get home after a while.

A few days later, I decided to figure out where the fuck we  had been. I remembered the sign saying "Brownstown" on the way in and decided to google it. Nothing came up on google. This was the early days of google, but it existed. I checked mapquest next. Nothing. I checked every motherfucking internet resource available and this place does not exist. Anywhere. There is no brownstown.

Where the fuck were we drinking? Was it really an imaginary place? I mean... it was nearly unbelievable that this kinda place exists, but wow. Apparently this place was like... mythical.

It has since been added to the list of mythical places in western PA. Alongside such wonderful places as the Magical Disappearing Lake and the Gateway To Indiana. And Ma's Laundry.

*EDIT*

Fuck all you motherfuckers. I found it!

Random Thought Of The Day #662

Day 662

Maybe I'm missing something here with all this bullshit but I have question...

What the fuck is with all this "we" shit when it comes to "healing"?

When did "we" become party to the issues between other people? When did "we" start becoming involved in the shit that happened between other people at times that "we" weren't around and weren't directly involved? And why in the green hopping Christ in a pogo stick did "we" decide that this was anyone else's business other than those that were involved?

What the fuck do we have to "heal" from? Did I miss a trauma-by-proxy rule somewhere? Why is this shit any of our business? Even if someone decides they're going to make their interpersonal issues public knowledge. Because I'm kinda sick and fucking tired of these drum-circle, touchy-feely, kumbaya bullshit expectations of empathy where when something fucked up happens to 1 person, every single person that knows that person has to "heal with them". No you fucking don't.

Do you know what you gotta do? Give em a hug and be there if they need to talk if they're your friend. And if they aren't, why the fuck do you care? But do you know what you don't have to do? Heal. Know why? Cause nothing fucking happened to you.

Hell... in some ways... this "we all need to heal" bullshit is even more insulting to those that are involved in a shitty situation.

This is why I can't fucking stand the intarwubz sometimes. I said it once and I'll say it again... Deal with the shit between you and someone else between you and someone else. Don't turn it into some kind of fucking spectacle.

Cause you know what all this sounds like? It sounds like a YOU problem and not a ME problem. And certainly not any sort of "we" problem.

But hey... I guess some people just feel the need to make use of those pitchforks and torches sometimes. I mean... Why buy them if they just sit in the shed?

Random Thought Of The Day #661

Day 661

I'm going to reiterate and explain something that I've said a couple times recently. Because I REALLY fucking think you people aren't listening.

Play is NOT therapy. The community should not be your therapy group. It shouldn't even be CLOSE to your therapy group. It shouldn't be a supplement or a form of continued care.

None of us are exactly well-adjusted individuals, however there should be some form of baseline criteria to meet. Not something that is decided by some arbitrary board or anything. Simply a degree of self-awareness that comes with a long, hard, look in the mirror and says "hey, I'm doing OK" or "I'm not yet OK" before jumping into the public scene or pick-up play arena. Hell, even jumping into the public scene in general should only be done after being at least moderately certain that you are not going to freak out at any minor infraction. But sicne crazy often doesn't realize it's crazy... might wanna get some second (and third and forth and thirty-second) opinions of if you're mentally stable enough.

I mean... I have a trigger too... it's major. When someone hits it, I go ballistic. I lose my god damned mind.

Hanging up on me when we're arguing on the phone.

Nothing gets my fucking Irish up like that. But you know what? It's not something that is a major area of concern when dealing with the public bdsm world. So I don't have to worry about it.

But when you are going to flip out about being touched. When you're going to lose your mind about a pronoun. When you're going to do your best Exorcist kid impression because something that you. don't. like. happened in your presence AND there is a risk of that thing happening just by leaving the house, much less venturing into a group of people whose respect for personal space and ability to communicate their own quirks is sometimes lacking? Well... maybe you might wanna spend a few days, weeks, months, or years on the couch at some Shrink's office first. Or medicate the fuck out of yourself.

I really don't care which one.

But deal with your shit and THEN call me. That's the way this used to work. The rules aren't really much different from that of normal vanilla society. As much as everyone seems to think they are sometimes. But being a functional human being IS one of those baseline requirements that need to be met. Nothing special. Just don't be someone who loses their mind over simple shit. And by simple, I mean fucking retarded. Like short-bus kinda stuff.

We keep wanting to create some sort of separate rules for the kink world and the vanilla world. We want to define assault in ways that differ from the vanilla world. We want to pretend that the baseline mental illness acceptance levels for vanilla society are somehow different from our own. We want to basically create some sort of separate value structure for the kink world... but we can't. You know why? Because the existing ones are good enough. They're there for a reason.

You might say that "in that case, the kink world would be ostracizing itself as a result, in the same way that the vanilla world does to it". But you'd be wrong. Because in this case, those in the society that collectively act as the arbiters of those values have an understanding of the kink world that the vanilla society does not. We have an understanding and ability to see the nuances without the same biases.

That doesn't invalidate the rules. It makes US better at arbitrating who meets them and who does not for acceptance into the "society".

The problem has never been with the baseline that are already established. They've been with the implementation and interpretation of them by people that don't understand how to apply them to the kink world. That's it.

You might not like it, but the kink world is NOT a way to escape the rules of acceptance for the vanilla world. It's simply a place where, generally speaking, being kinky or gay or non-gender-binary won't create the preconceived notions and bias against you from the start that happens in the vanilla world. We simply disregard that adjective in forming a consensus of if you meet the general baseline standard of acceptance and being a functional human being. Cause douchebag is douchebag, no matter if you like dick or pussy. And crazy is crazy, whether you have natural or artificial boy/girl parts. And creepy is creepy no matter if you're into feet or just want a romantic date. Well... being into feet makes you creepy no matter what. Because feet are gross and you should kill yourself if that's your kink. Because feet are gross. It's not QUITE as much of an assisted-suicide-resulting offense as wearing leggings as pants, but close. Really close.

What I'm saying is... Crazy, however... is still crazy. No matter what community you are in that is generally made up of functional human beings. Though if a whole community is crazy, crazy'll fit right the fuck in.

Random Thought Of The Day #660

Day 660

I didn't sleep last night. I just stared at the ceiling and then watched Netflix and then stared at the ceiling some more and then more Netflix until it was time to get up for work.

And I totally forgot that the other day was Roswell Crash Day. If it wasn't for that fateful day, 65 years ago, in the asshole of the country that is most of New Mexico and the southwest, we wouldn't have people like this asshole from Ancient Aliens and his fucking insane hair to make internet memes about.

But I guess we'd just pick some other crazy asshole to make internet memes about instead. Because... apparently we have nothing better to do. And we'd still have that "I just met you" girl to make fun of instead.

So in conclusion... I hate you all and I hope you all die in a fiery, painful, explosive-ridden manner. Preferably involving some sort of space craft. Because...



Aliens.

Yeah... I just cross-meme'd your ass!

RTOTD #659.1

Day 659.1

So in the past few weeks, we've finally observed the Higgs-Boson particle AND Dark Matter. We're figuring out the structure of the universe significantly more than we have in decades. Just knowing that our theoretical science is right is huge and a major step forward for humanity.

Yeah... this is right around the time that something REALLY fucked up happens.

I promise I won't be the one to cause it.

Then again, I also promised not to hide in your attic until you fall asleep anymore. And you might not know, but I do... that I didn't keep that promise.

Sweet dreams, children.

Random Thought Of The Day #659

Day 659
So, I've been thinking about this and it's a thought that keeps popping into my head every time I read a profile here or on OKC or pretty much anywhere.

Why is it necessary for people to say that they "enjoy having fun" or "having a good time" or something along those lines? Was there or is there a rash of people that hate being miserable and yet constantly are that I'm not aware of? Because well... if they love being miserable, then they're actually having their own definition of fun. If they love having a shitty time, then they're actually having a good time for themselves.

"Fun" or "good" are objective terms that describe subjective experiences. Having a red hot poker shoved up my ass and having my dick chopped off might sound like a fucking blast to some people but at the same time, it sounds like... well... like having a red hot poker shoved up their ass and their dick chopped off... to pretty much every other human being on the planet. Namely, a fucking nightmare.

But do you get what I'm saying here? A ballet might be the most fun thing ever for you. It sounds like fucking torture for me.

And taking the ballet example again... for me, as it would be fucking torture, even that could be fun. If I liked being tortured. But if I did NOT like being tortured, then it would be not fun. See how that works?

It's like proving a negative. Fun could be playing with puppies or being stabbed repeatedly by sharp fucking pokey things, depending on who you are. Not fun would require it to be something that you dislike and then doing simply because you dislike it while getting no enjoyment from it.

Fuck, even a masochist loves the endorphin and adrenaline rush from getting the shit beaten out of them. So they're getting something out of it.

So saying that you like having a good time and having fun is fucking stupid. The only thing you're saying is "Hi, I'm not batshit crazy and do not want to be absolutely miserable all the time without getting enjoyment from my misery."

I think it should be assumed at this point.

Then again, some people are fucking nuts.

Random Thought Of The Day #658

Day 658

There is nothing more distinctly American than cooking a shitload of meat, drinking to excess, and blowing shit up while sitting outside.

You know what, though? Fuck these mid-week holidays.  You can't enjoy them. You have to celebrate so fucking early that if you don't time shit right, you end up passed out on the couch 2 hours before fireworks even start. Or if you wait too late or don't time things right, you end up drinking until like 11 or midnight and then when you try to wake up at 5 or 6 am, your body kinda actually looks at your responsible-adult-part-of-your-brain and says "oh, go fuck yourself, asshole. That was your idea last night. This is your problem this morning."

I think I've mentioned the Holiday Theorem before, right? The one that says there's only 2 kinds of holidays. Hallmark holidays and Drinking holidays. And all holidays fit one or both of these categories. You either get loaded or you send a fucking card. Sometimes you do both, but you  never do neither. Unless it's a made-up holiday like that sequal to Valentine's Day in August, or secretary's day. The closest that you get to not doing either would be Thanksgiving, but tell me you don't get turkey-coma and trashed from dealing with that much family for that long?

Though "Bring Your Dog To Work" Day should be a drinking holiday. It really should. Leave a bowl of beer out for the dog too. Everyone just plays with puppies all day. It'll be a cute little cuddle puddle of drunken idiots and puppies.

Also, this should totally be "Women Wear Short Skirts To Work" Day as well. Because girls kneeling down or crouching down or laying down while cuddling with a dogs is an up-the-skirt shot waiting to happen no matter what position you are at.

But so... the Holiday Theorem. Well... this should be adopted everywhere. Federally fucking defined categories. And anything that is categorized as a Drinking holiday that falls mid-week needs to mandate an extra day off work for "recovery". Because it's kinda bullshit that you're expected to stay capable of going to work the next day after a day as synonymous with being a slopped up drunk playing with firecrackers as possible. I mean... just the number of grill or fireworks burns that show up the day after 4th of July should be grounds for this. Give the burns an extra day to heal before coming back to work.

Random Thought Of The Day #657

Day 657 

Hmmm... I'm working on the introduction for the book and it's weird. I've never really written anything like this.

I have to keep taking a break to go write more of the "Hold my beer and watch this" story as I remember it all. And as I'm reminded of it from friends. There's just some nights that you really should have died and somehow didn't. This was one of them. There's absolutely no reason that I shoulad have been alive after this, but somehow I am. So needless to say... there's periods of it that I can't quite remember. And parts that blend together a little bit.

Here's some of the stories that I've come up with that are almost definitely going to be in it so far. About half of these, I haven't written about. And probably a good chunk of them, I've never even told anyone about. Sometimes, because the statute of limitations wasn't yet up on them.

But here's what I got:

The Imaginary Relationship story
Girl mistakenly invites Joe & Friends to a party. Things break.
Spontaneous Anal
The "Hold My Beer & Watch This" story
"Oh, so it's an assault rifle kinda party, is it?"
Slut gets drunk and snorts adderall. Wants to go jogging at 3am
An Egg of Hash
Chloroform Snowboarding
Beer Case Sled Riding
A Conversation with Merlin the Magician
Free Lap Dances & the War with My Liver
The Myrtle Beach Roadtrip
RTOTD #352 (Original Version AND all replies... use-names hidden)
"It's OK, I Know What I'm Doing!"
The Pepper Spray Story
Vaseline & Doorknobs
"What are we going to do with all these construction signs?"

and a few others. A number of strip club stories. And some other party stories as I remember them. Some shorter stories. Some random thoughts. And some of the stories that you've read so far are going to be longer. Because other things happened during those stories that I omitted from the original postings of them. Either because I didn't know how to make them funny at the time or because I just didnt remember parts.

And often, because the full stories were just too long. The Bullhorn story was only 1 part of the Myrtle Beach Roadtrip Story. And the World's Largest Slip N Slide story was  only 1 part of the Egg of Hash story. So if I were to write the WHOLE story here.. well... it's going to be WAY too fucking long to post as just a blog post. So... I cut it down to only 1 part of a larger story.

And if you have any other favorites that you'd like to see in there, let me know. Because most likely, they're part of larger stories that can get expounded upon. And I KNOW that I've forgotten even all of them that I've told.

But that reminds me... I need girls for the book cover. I think I have 1 already. I need a blonde though. Long hair. Skinny. If you have a tramp stamp or ink on your back, even better.  Your face won't be shown. It's not a paying thing. I dont' NEED it, but I have an idea ofor the cover that will be pretty funny and I need 1 brunette and 1 blonde. I can do it with just the brunette, but it'll be funnier with both. But if you want your ass on the cover of a book, let me know.

RTOTD #656.1

Day 656.1

I think there's an epidemic of girls that are totally NOT of legal age getting a bunch of ink done. And it's freaking me out.

I know this is a revelation, but I love girls with ink. A great body will draw my attention. A pretty face as well. But what keeps it is any body modifications they have. And ink is a pretty obvious one.

So when a group of us were at Cedar Point this weekend and I started to notice (and have pointed out to me) girls that had a bunch of ink that, upon inspection of their face, I couldn't tell if they were 15 or 23... I kinda freaked out.

Maybe I'm just getting old and can't quite distinguish anymore. Maybe I'm just getting old and 21 or 19 is starting to look no different than jailbait. And I'm automatically assuming a 5-year cushion in order to be on the safe side... but still.

We were in line for one ride and there were a number of people in front of us when my one roomie poked me and asked "how old do you think that girl is?" about the girl in the group directly in front of us.

I took a glance out of the corner of my eye at her face and said "couldn't be a day over 16"

And after a moment of hessitation she told me "look at her back when she turns around"

I waited a moment and then, when her back was to me, staring right at me, was a rather large tattoo across the top of her back.

It was at that moment that I realized I'm no longer able to effectively judge the age of any girl and I swear to fucking christ, I'm going to start demanding that girls to wear their ID's on a necklace in front of them so that I can see it clearly before uttering a single word.

I used to use ink as a pretty good determining factor when speaking to someone in that gray area. The 17-22 range where a lot of girls can look older than their age or younger. Ink was a pretty clear indicator in most cases. Sure, there were the occasional times when a parent would sign for their kid to get a tattoo under 18, but that was few and far between. Going by that rule was generally pretty safe. But now, it seems to me that this has become an epidemic. And it's freaking me the fuck out.

This again, brings up my Potato Sack Policy idea that I've had since I was 19. Girls under 18 must wear a potato sack at all times in order for us to know. Plus... a potato sack is totally unappealing on every conceivable level... Unless you have an Idaho starch fetish. Which would be weird. So with it being so ugly, and obvious... well... it mitigates the "oh shit, I'm going to jail!" factor.

Oh... but then fashion will find a way to incorporate the potato sack into fashion so 20-something and 30-something girls can dress like a teenager again. And then we're back to square fucking one.

Instead... I'm going to automatically assume that everyone that isn't obviously within 2 years of my age one way or the other is either illegal or a fossil from now on. But then again, I'm probably also being creepy by even looking at girls that are in that gray area. Cause I'm becoming an old fuck. Or maybe only pick up girls in bars. Because even if they're there on a fake ID, they're most likely at least 18 and legal.

Random Thought Of The Day #656

Day 656

It's day 2 of NHL free agency. And almost nothing of consequence happened yesterday.

So it's pretty much a glue-sniffing day. NHL free agency, NHL trade-deadline day, and NHL draft-days are pretty much my holidays. I mean... I have to share them with those maple syrup snorting Eh-holes from north of the border, but whatever.

Canada can suck it.

America is better. And I'm better than all of Canada combinred.

So in the meantime... here's some porn to hold you over until I have something more interesting to say.