I’m not sure how I continue to be surprised at the appalling things my family will like and share on Facebook.
My father just shared a fucking Monica Lewinsky joke about all this Nike ad nonsense, and here’s what really chaps my ass — the joke wasn’t even FUNNY. (“Believe in something, even if it means swallowing everything. Just do it.” HA HA HA HA, OH WAIT, NO, that is actually a shitty joke.)
Dad, you and I are about to have a conversation about all the miscellaneous dicks I had in MY mouth at age 22, and how maybe I’d love to not be judged for it decades later and pulled into TOTALLY UNRELATED ISSUES, because the dudes were complete morons. I didn’t even have the self-esteem to AIM for the president — I was jocking my manager at a Blockbuster Video in Jersey, getting finger-banged in the candy closet. (To this day, if I see a box of Sno-Caps, I get MOIST.)
Also, just…fucking EW! I’m your daughter, and you have nieces and grandchildren! I know you’re a dude and all, but CHRIST!
It’s possible I need to lay off Facebook for a while. Or just mute my own goddamn father. Again.
In an email titled “Goddamn whippersnapper,” a friend sent me this Buzzfeed article, and I need someone to make this guy NOT 20. He can’t be 20. He doesn’t look 20. That is massively unfair, as is this lady boner I have for him.
I am a goddamn dirty old lady. I could have babysat him. I could not, legally*, get him drunk enough to fuck me, because you know he only bangs other 20-year-old supermodels and, in his eyes, I might as well be that vat of fat Oprah wheeled out in the wagon that time, a reference this guy WOULD NOT GET BECAUSE HE IS FUCKING TWENTY. Twen-TY.
My vagina doesn’t seem to care about any of this information. I’ll be in my bunk.
*The friend points out that I COULD legally get him drunk enough to fuck me in his home country, so now I’m looking into flights to Australia, as well as the safest ways to approach and cuddle koalas, and the going rate for a keg of Foster’s. (Note to self: Rent Crocodile Dundee. I bet he’s never seen THAT, either. I have so much to teach him, you guys. First and fore[play]most: how appreciative middle-aged women can be when you go down on them.)
This probably isn’t true for all women, so gentlemen, your mileage may vary, but…
I’d say about 27 days out of a given month, you can try anything to stimulate my breasts and I’ll barely feel it. As I understand it, this is fairly common once you find yourself in the larger sizes. It’s not unpleasant. It’s just that I can hardly tell what you’re doing unless I look down at you.
However, those other three days? Good God, my boobs feel ALL THE THINGS at once, and are so tender that even having a bra on them almost itches, like they’re just trying to escape all day. And when I finally get to take the bra off…oh, the unbridled joy and freedom! That’s some Braveheart shit right there.
I’ll issue a press release for the future playmates whenever the next episode of Happy Fun Breast Playtime is. I’ll make sure he sees that it IS humanly possible to get a reaction out of me that way; you just have to pick your moment. I feel bad when I can tell the guy’s confident the breast move is his best move and I can’t even feel it.
P.S. Remind me to go to Japan and see if I can sell Happy Fun Breast Playtime as a game show.