You know, I am so sick and tired of giving girls my phone number and then they do not call. I mean, they ALWAYS come up with some excuse, like "Oh, I need to run and buy cucumbers at Safeway" or "My car is at Meineke getting the tranny plowed" or "I lost my contact lens case" or "I have to drive to my friend's house in El Cerrito so we can listen to the Carpenters and drink Riunite on ice."
WELL LADIES, I HAVE NEEDS.
Okay, I made that all up, and I'm a gay guy anyway. So here's my two cents. Gurrl, that boy isn't right. Last time I made a date with a guy like that (he called me 47 times in an hour) it ended in disaster. You might aks why I made a date with him anyway. Well, he looked like Justin Timberlake in that "Rock Your Body" video and said he had an 11" penis. So I figured I'd put up with the bullshit because at least he'd be a hot lay and I'd get to play with that massive weenie.
Big mistake. That weenie was nowhere near 11 inches and he was a goddamn bottom anyway. When I woke up after an intense night of poo-stabbing, I felt a little...off. It wasn't until I scratched my ass I felt about 25 plastic spoons sticking out of it. I looked like some tweaked-out demented Thanksgiving turkey. Horrified, I ran to the bathroom where there was a post-it note stuck to the bathroom mirror that said, "Gobble-gobble! Your new name is Spooner! Don't you wish you had called me sooner, Spooner?" He also stole my velvet painting of Terilyn Joe that I bought at a Chevron station in Oakland, that motherfucker. So ever since then I have been really careful who I let go near my kitchen, especially wild-eyed boys who just did a bump of coke.
Okay, I so made up that whole story. And I never had a velvet painting of Terilyn Joe, but I sure want one.