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Friday, 11 April
This Post Is Dedicated To My Friend Claxy, And His Hat
As usual, I stopped in to get my morning cup o' joe (for three dollars--I'm a tool) at my normal place, and was jabbering mindlessly with the barista guy. He's a nice, hyperactive fellow, has a kid, and is in a band, and possesses admirable, complicated sideburns, and is always good to me. I like the guy, and he entertains me sometimes by playing tapes of his band, whose music is a sort of indelibly ear-mauling skronk that wouldn't sound out of place in some Pigface outtake tapes. He's fun.
So it was with sad alarm that I happened to notice this morning that he has no ass. That just sucks, you know? He turned around to grab my yowling scalded milk, and there it wasn't: his jeans just kind of hung defeatedly off his waist, like the sails of a ship at dead calm. It depressed me terribly, especially when I realized that I was inadvertantly mentally evaluating some guy's ass.
This, naturally, caused me to speculate about my own ass. I pondered it as I walked to work, which isn't all that easy, because it's not like it's readily available for inspection. My mental picture of my own ass is probably imperfect, not only because it's on the back of me, but also because: who wants to carry around a clear image of anyone's ass around in one's head? So I can only speculate.
I think it's a pretty good ass. Feisty without being overbearing, I would say. Certainly downy, though this worries me a bit, for as I get older, there is the chance that the hair will coarsen, but I can't start worrying about that now. I also perceive that my ass has a charming heft and carriage.
And I do have some evidence to back me up, though it's less than empiric: in college, during the run of a particular play in which the cast wore very little, I was voted "best ass of the cast" by the actresses. Then again, none of them would have sex with me, so this might have been a mollifying sop to my ego.
I really shouldn't post on Fridays.
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I also will not have sex with you.
Somebody call for me?
Damn you, Joe! The dream is over!
Speaking of ass...
I was dating this guy who had no ass. I married him out of pity for his assless state. I finally divorced him because I couldn't stand his lack of ass.
There is only so much a girl can take, y'know?
Oh thanks a bunch. I was doing just fine right up until "downy" -- going along thinking about jeans-covered asses, no problem. Then you had to go and say "downy", and now I'll be carrying that picture along with me for eternity.
Just for that: Picture this: pimply
Downy, shmowny, you'll be fine ... as long as you aren't suddenly bestowed with a nickname like "Fluffybottom."
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