Here I sit, writing an article for the website Funnyordie. This is because, I read, in a drunken haze, on some fucking web site about other websites that aren't porn, that in order to gain more visitors and be a better blogging bastard and possibly internet famous, I need to write articles for a shit ton of sites! Whatever in the fuck that means. To me, internet famous is like being the smartest one in special ed. Though, you can spell your name, pretty legibly...on the second try, you're still fucking retarded. Sorry. So, that being said. I'm trying to pimp my ass around, like so much easy pussy to an underwhelmed public. It's basically like that...except, well, if someone selling ass went door to door.
Hiiiiii, ma'am. Sellin' fresh Man-gina for the pokin' are you interested?
It's disease free...I hope AHAHAHAHahahaaaaaa...so?
I kind of knew that going in to some extent. Selling is what it's all about. I mean, sellin' dat ass, is what the world is about. Name one fucking thing you've ever done that wasn't selling your ass for something? Have a job? You had to sell that ass during the interview. You had to sell them on the idea of hiring your ass. I'm not talking about literally selling your ass, you gross fuck. That's a little narcissistic anyway isn't it? Thinking everyone wants to buy YOUR ass. Though, to tell you the truth...I am interested. How about you, me, a midget (that will stand in the corner, dressed like Batman all creepy like) and...well...what are your feelings about donkey lovin'?
How about two headed donkey love?
So, if I can sell my ass well enough, I might get a gazillion visitors, which would be fucking awesome. I'd get paid...ish. Maybe even make a job of this shit. Which would kick just about every other job I've ever had in the dick...with a steel toe boot...of shame! Oh, well, with the exception of that time I was hired to watch women fondle their tits, while stress testing dildos that could only be manipulated with their mouths...and ass cheeks, that was a great fucking job.
How are we doing, Elton?...Elton?
The only drag, I guess, with getting popular, is the attention. Kind of an oxymoronic statement, I know, but, still. I guess it's more of the people might get stupid crazy on me. Do I need someone tracking me down where I live to sit out in front of my house, possibly jerking their pud or some such nonsense? Hell no! Oh, here it comes, now I'm being narcissistic, right? Really, I'm not. It's just that, I'd don't know if you noticed...but, people are fucking weird. Crazy, even. I mean, shit. Oh, and get this...they're fucking everywhere! Have you watched that show My Strange Addiction? There was a guy on there that liked pulling hair out of people's drains and...fucking feeling it up. What the fuck is with that? Now tell me that someone can't get obsessed with my goofy ass blog enough to form an idea like, "Hmm...he writes funny stuff, but, what does his blood taste like mixed with Goldfish, the snack that smiles back, that's the real question?". If not, you're living in a freakishly childlike Disney dream world filled with pixie stick trees and free anonymous sex with fine ass people, god bless you. Though, I will say, if there are people out there that like the taste of human blood mixed with their salty snacks, KEEP READING, I appreciate it and, uh, stay at home...always at home.
What I want, is to A: stay alive and B: maybe entertain and most importantly C: making, fat...fat wads of indiscriminate cash...that I may wipe my ass with hundreds and still have enough money left over...to pile into rudimentary bed shapes...and fuck on it. Is that so bad? Is my dream so wrong? I think it's doable...if I can generate enough buzz with this blog to convince a billionaire to fund my foray into green backed pyromania and monetary bedded sexual deviance. With a few more readers, I think that just might happen...
I'm looking at you, Mr. Gates. You sexy motherfucker.