TMIT: BALL MASTERS IN THE YEAR POST-WAR AFTER POST-TRUTH

1. would you rather wrestle naked in a pool of Jello or chocolate pudding? my subscription came in and i started watching CourtTV all day wall-to-wall last week. so.......................at least for now i better choose neither.

2. would you rather have sex in your parents' bed or at a mattress store? CLICK HERE, RIGHT HERE AT THIS LINK

3. would you rather have sex on a beach in Hawaii or behind a waterfall in Brazil? you would think behind the waterfall would give you more privacy, and a nice view, but it's actually a Playboy Grotto situation. i want to go back to a place where leaders don't tweet out everything. like your location to the cops or war plans. in this crazed age of hours, made more crazed by unchecked tech and a check made out to a transaction, you must desperately guard your little secret spot o' privacy by the palm trees before it's found out. by Government Google Maps.

4. would you rather be on top riding your lover all night or taken/taking them from behind all night long? why? i'm skinny and a lightweight and airy so i don't mind being on top. that can cause configuration-confusion when i start bouncing up and down so we usually settle on the ass. it's weird but i usually end up having the smaller ass. and after the 3 minutes are over, i push play on my cassette of Lionel Ritchie's "All Night Long" which coincidentally is also 3 minutes long.

5. would you rather have sex with only one person watching but they know it's you or with 50 people watching and have them not know it's you?

i only want one person to ever watch me fuck. Crayzar. i want Crayzar to maintain that reassuring smile of his as he dispenses sex advice to me directly into my withering earhole with his sweet whispery nothings. his smile isn't glued on with cosplay glue, that's how he really looks. the last time i admit was difficult cos i couldn't quite get what Crayzar was telling me. part of this has to do with the understanding-barrier cos i'm a mortal and he's a god. but it also had to do with Crayzar ordering me not to cum when i was peaking with my peeper right at the edge. that's easy for him to say, Crayzar has no genitalia.

bonus: would you rather have to pay for sex or be paid to have sex? explain. both. allow me to explain. it's complicated. time travel always is. i'd pay myself for sex, that's perfect love. it's like the situation involving Zamasu and Goku Black. check out the last few episodes and delve into the mystery. did you see how those two Big Bads were hugging each other the other night? that's perfect love right there.

Ballmastrz?

CLICK HERE FOR TMI TUESDAY

MAKE MATH EXCITING AGAIN

i have a story to tell. it fits in with the current climate and the world of society. where at large is getting smaller and smaller. my dad was destined for great things. he had worked his way up to adjunct professor as you were supposed to. not a whiff of scandal attached to his name. he was on the career path not cos it was the scenic route but cos there was really nothing else he could do. the minute he wrote a screenplay he was labeled pretentious. they were railing against Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life. dad argued that where else, in what other part of society, are you allowed to be pretentious? you can't be pretentious pumping gas. of course movies are pretentious, they're supposed to be! THAT'S THE FUCKING POINT. be as wildly pretentious as you possibly can BE when you make a film! invent your own philosophy and language. make it so hard to understand it becomes inscrutable to its writer. that's what dad was going for but alas in this cruel world of ours the ones with the revolution and foresight are kicked to the curb. which just proved dad's point about society and such. they relegated him to the graveyard shift of teaching college math. stowed away like a serf. nobody wants to teach college math. college math is doomed.

nobody wants to admit math is boring. and nobody wants to admit that from the womb---when you're learning your numbers in kindergarten---math is arbitrary. because numbers are arbitrary. they're just things we made up to try to explain the incalculable universe. much like money or daylight savings with an s. dad did his darndest but he was itching all over his hair all the time. he needed to break free and be free. he needed to try out for Jeopardy!. he suffocates himself on his dreary work life in order to escape to his mind. inside where he can hide and touch. they didn't allow him to paint cos the paintbrushes were too pointy and sharp-objecty, so all he had as tools were his students and a spongy white eraser that was really black but covered in chalk. he labored and lorded over his chalkboard, those majestic Green Monster chalkboards that only uni lecture halls have, as if to declare that this ain't no kindergarten no mo'. chalkboards which required an antiquated ladder and many stools and could be pulled down three times three stories high like the collage at the back of a MAD magazine. he flipped though his cracked datebook looking for that one unsolvable equation that still needed unmystifying. when he got too close to the mystery he allowed the mystery to envelop him, for that's the only way to feel lived-in in a mystery, you can never conquer a mystery, only hope to swim in one. finally he hit on one, the theorem that was trying to do away with the equals sign, claiming we didn't need them anymore, formulas could work just fine without them. HE SOLVED IT!!! and he used only ONE equals sign, the very first symbol he chalked to the long winding salamander sentence which scribbled and scrawled its way down to the right corner of the last board.

dad turns around and is confronted, instead of comforted, by his most vile student, the one with the white dollop of vanilla ice cream for hair, and a one-dollar bill for his tongue.

student: get a haircut, hippie.

dad strokes his long hair for the first time since when it mattered. it hasn't been shampooed in decades and is starchy and bitter to the touch. crunchy and stinking of granola. he remembered his artsy-fartsy days and farts in protest. he shoots back and commemorates in his head those exciting times when dark ages were gray and you could still speak your mind, stand for something, and feel out of guilt if you wanted. when flowers and marches were matched the next season with flowers in March, nature heard.

dad: what is your name, son?

student: Mike.

dad: Mike? Mike?! just Mike. anonymous Mike. how dare you use my name in vain, you fucking cuck. that is the name my beloved son calls me. except he calls me dad. you think this is funny? you're probably one of those stupid Christians who thinks he can stand up to all the atheists on campus with a rousing benighted speech about equivalence like that Chick Tract.

student: yes.

dad: that Chick Tract never happened. that was apocryphal, as is Christianity. God is still dead and you're trafficking in conspiracy theories without a license cos you're too young. you give cartoons a bad name! for your penance say out loud the Lord's Prayer in an embarrassing gym room 10 times and work on the next season of Archer. you know, a cartoon that makes fun of everything, you could learn something.

student: i am not a talented drawer, sir.

dad: then don't draw conclusions. open your mind so wide you crack your skull when you fall off your skateboard cos you had too many stickers under the wheels of the wheel well.

dad takes the shoulder of the old visiting janitor, wipes his brow with his oil, and breaks out in song, shouting "Let The Sunshine In" angrily a centimeter away from the kid's face. the kid turns beet-blue and beats it.

the next dewey morning dad is collecting his things in one brown shoebox and peers out his window for the last time. it's a blue window with curved arches so high they're taller than the wall they hang on.

dad: *sighily rustling papers* too big for their own good.

outside on the grass under a nut tree the students are all naked. as is the old adjunct professor, who's really a third-year student. everyone is naked. they stroke each others' pocket sitars and mini-tambourines and dance flightily with one another, singing and humming and snorting out all the nut milk they've drunk. protein shakes served at the caf instead of coffee. no more donuts, unless they are plain. the lesson this morning bright-and-early: what exactly is a circle?

dad heaves a ho and turns back around.

dad: object lesson.

he gathers his things and wits and quietly exits the stage. when he reaches under the stone gate of the tower he takes an ill-advised sip of his cream soda. he drinks it too fast and the fizzy suds end up in his nose, he can't breathe for a week cos his sinuses have formed a needling mustache on his upper lip. he tosses the can of cream soda down the sewer grate.

THE EVENTS TRANSPIRED MUCH LIKE THIS, CLICK HERE

happy weekend, my babies, only you can make it happy.

PASSING SHOT: THE FUTURE OF THE GAME (III)

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Chrissie: *stunned* well hello what's this? i'm not feeling like i can't walk for a week. i get up gingerly and i carry your two's jisms in my cage and i can get off the bed and walk around and there's no trail of drips. and now for the best part. the rainfall shower. sorry, guys.

Fed and Rafa look at each other, raise their pronounced bushy eyebrows, they each have a distinguishing distressed one, and tell each other: sorry not sorry.

Chrissie: quick, Rafa, look at my wooden nipple ring!

Rafa looks.

Chrissie knocks Rafa's face out using only her breast to strike the blow, not her hands. her tits really are that big to accomplish this feat.

Chrissie: Roger, look at my other tit's wooden nipple ring!

Roger: you can't fool a fool.

Chrissie: i can if the sickness is lovesickness.

and she knocks Roger out cold with a thundering bolt from her unassisted left boob.

Chrissie: RACK ATTACK!!! heehee, gets 'em men every time! and now to claim my just reward.

she removes her wooden nipple rings and puts them in a pile on top of her hair. and the wedding ring she finds digging into Roger's back. she stacks that on the pile. she leaves the areola area and into the new one. the new frontier. she closes the door behind her, the door of stained glass of one color: grey. the door closes and immediately it turns to the grey sky of the Amazon floor. bottomsoil at her feet, the green shampoo she uses which runs down her back and sills into a soapy brown sud trail under her feet, tickling her foamy toes. the conditioner she uses is white and cream and ivory and blends with the sperm in her pussy. but none of the sperm spills out. her rainfall shower blends into her body with equal force and pressure, a bathrobe of refreshment. suddenly the silver metallic rainfall showerhead robotically bends into her pussy before she can blink.

Chrissie: wait, what's going on! what's happening here! it's happening too fast!

it enters her and wiggles around a bit.

the green leaves and trees collapse and fall down on top of her, enveloping her in a sea of green. she is swallowed up into another body. a metallic body that at first displays pink healthy skin but is soon replaced with an outer coating of protracted pukey pungent orange. like toxic waste on the plates. a Hollywood tan. a bad Hollywood tan on this girl. the new android bashes down the shower door to a torrent of hssing mist. she is the girl known as Genie Bouchard. she speaks in a standardized signature staccato. Chrissie Evert is no more, engulfed in this new robot skinny frame. Chris Lloyd-Evert is gone. so is Chris Evert-Lloyd for that matter.

Genie: *statically* where are my clothes? i am not ashamed. i require dress that is fashion. i will not be like the former models. no more racist jokes, i am of a new millennium. i will scrubs all such offenses from my memory banks. no more about Arthur Ashe's name. when i google Martina from now on, the whole datafile of the complete Fried Green Tomatoes will appear up. DeRozan is a good player, i'm not just saying that as a homer pick. i have no home.

Federer and Nadal appear bunched together on a hard court. they have been blindfolded for days. once they take an hour for their eyes to adjust back, they are livid. especially Roger which is scary.

Roger and Rafa: how could you do this to us?! what have you done?!

Genie is on the other side of the court separated by a wuthering net.

Genie turns her neon-hot-pink racquet around to face the nub of the wrapped handle at the boys, holding the strung strings with her long fingers through the holes. like a machine gun.

Genie: you can't see me but i'm crying inside. i never meant for this to happen. we were gonna raise this child together. like a three's company. i'm too old to coach. the rainfall showers are not in any reviews, i checked twitter.

Roger: wait, is that Chrissie's voice? coming from inside that ganguro girl?

Nadal: i'm not even gonna comment at this point.

Genie: it's me Chrissie. at first it was about the money. but throughout the course the student taught the teacher. i never thought in a million years you'd betray your wife. for my tray. once-in-the-generations talent. well, twice. and Nadal was a happy accident.

Nadal: let's not turn this into a discussion on abortion.

Roger: how could you burden us with this responsibility? i mean me. i'm under no illusions. nor delusions. i'm also under enough immense pressure. i've got records to keep out of stretching reach.

Chrissie: the airplane ride here gave me time to think. it's transatlantic but vertical. i realized this could work. and that i was in fact in love with you. i love you, Roger.

Nadal waits for the pregnant pause...................he puts his gangly arms up in disgust.

Nadal: oh come on! i saw him first! she looks like me!

they are baking in the Australian sun, all except Genie.

Chrissie: it can be more than transactional. or an experiment. or life in the fast city. but you have to retire to see it.

Genie points the tennis gun directly at the two masters, separate from her mistress soul.

Genie: *robotically* prepare for no love. with this, i take over the world.

Chrissie: last-ditch effort. look at this.

she shows Genie the woman du jour, Fanny Blankers-Koen.

Bump: Blankers. that's fun to say. heehee, fun.

Genie: it says here women's athletics were a time not thought of high-regardedly. so why should i care? what does this have to do with me?

Bump: that's what i said.

Genie destroys Roger on court 6-0 6-0 6-0. Nadal retires. with an injury to his wound. Genie waits for Nadal to recover 100%. then she promptly defeats Nadal 6-0 6-0 6-0 at Roland Garros.

that night, Genie does a sit-down interview about her match tactics with John Major, who has declared himself Prime Minister For Life. the hot lights are bright. John is sweltering majorly. Genie doesn't feel anything.

PASSING SHOT: THE FUTURE OF THE GAME (II)

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in the neighboring room, Christiane Amanpour has a shirtless Torin Yeater-Wallace by his outstretched spreadeagle wrists pinned to either side of the double posts of the bed. the headboard is rollicking and rolling. her scraped wartorn knees are on top of his nipples.

Christiane: yes. yes i do believe i can milk you.

Torin: *ashenfaced* please, please don't hurt me!

Christiane: *grinning from drooping earlobe to drooping earlobe* let's talk about sex.

Torin: please. what is this? i never thought it'd get this serious!

Christiane: *not letting go and darting her dark pupils all the way round her eyes* let's talk about sex.

Torin: yeet. i won't confess to something i didn't do! we're too-easy targets.

Christiane: *revealing her forked tongie* let's talk about sex.

Torin: okay okay! look, it was fun with the girl at first. we fucked in the snow. it was her first snow. but then we woke up. together. and fucked again at the break of dawn and it wasn't as special. she stormed out of this very room we occupy now and never looked back, i memorized that view. dust for her fingerprints if you don't believe me, try my back first. checkmark! she took all her clothes with her in a huff. you know how fickle teenage girls can be. that's all i know i swear. i don't know where she is! she's probably downstairs in the lobby sipping a café coffee.

Christiane sucks up her worldweary mouth and licks every inch of her lips, four-corner to four-corner like the long hand of a clock. she slips back on her heart-red blouse and snaps back on her dangling black fitbit watch she wears around her neck. no bra in the English tradition.

Christiane: *meekly, accentedly* i wanted to talk about sex. it's different for everyone. this is culture.

_______________________

in the neighboring neighboring room Molly Qerim's room is anything but boring. her impressive inspiring ass has grown to a volume unseen by man. the contours of the room are no longer visible. Mo from Michigan's eyes are transfixed on her crack. a steady stream of small wooden circles emerge and energize and dance like ants over her sweaty back, droplets glistening in the snow from afar outside.

Molly: *face turned away from her men, deliberately deliberating directions* these are mini-condoms. for your dicks. try them on. for when you go on tour! perfect fit!

Mo: from Michigan, not Missouri. you're right, they are!

Mo brandishes the bay balcony window open to blizzard in the cold. he takes ahold of his penis and starts conducting with it, up and down in a fierce undulate, he feels the music in his head, and soon the penis and the baton are one instrument, one pen. his fair hair is on fire as the strains of Verdi's "Requiem, Dies irae" begin filling the electronic streets of Tokyo. the Japanese tourists look up and take pictures of him with selfies.

Mo: irie. i'm sure my great-grandfather really composed this. it sounds just like him.

Jalen Rose: sheeeet. no matter who you are, there's always someone comes along who's younger.

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in the neighboring room opposite, Ashley Parker is twirling the room keys on her wrapped pinkie finger. she was injured on the job. she leans on the doorsill with only the outside hallway light filtering through. this is a rare evening for rosy makeup on her cheeks. she snidely smirks at her beau, James Comey, tied up with black wire on the bed. his long legs needing a pound and pounding of wire. his arms spreadeagle stretched to capacity. two black masks, one for his eyes, one damp one for his mouth.

Ashley: i enjoyed this. where have you been? why were you out so late?

Comey: you're the one who just stepped in. you're the one with the keys.

Ashley: oh i was celebrating my Pulitzer Prize. without my Jim. dammit Jim! i've always wanted to say that.

Comey: do you get a trophy for that? sorry, honey, but i'm on tour. ion the middle of it. well i'm gonna curtail it a bit, i just don't have the will to go on Fox News. i can eat that deduction in income, i've been tossing and turning all night thinking about it. sweating like a top cop.

Ashley: yeah it's like the Stanley Cup. everyone who also won a Pulitzer takes a sip. Kendrick Lamar's and my lips touched at the same time when we both went in for our sip. it was magic. but then the moment was over. jealous?

Comey: of him? yes, absolutely, of course, for many reasons. it affects my sensibilities and is at the core root of the problems in this country. but i can admit this. i am not infallible or a paragon of virtue. i am a model in need of molding.

Ashley: right away, sir. i must say i'm jealous. you are the celebrity. you're in this unique position where everyone depises you, you have no friends, you are a true outlaw, that's hot. you're a real regulations rulebreaker. on the down-low regular. that's low. for someone so high. i had no idea some of the things in your book. never knew about your childhood traumas. which makes this bonding session comfortable for you. you never know what secrets shape a person, you can never tell from talking to them or looking at them, you have to read them. you. here. in this position. opening up. being vulnerable. it's making me hot. you are so hot to me right now.

Comey: well i just cleared my schedule. how about an all-nighter? you know, i can still see your freckles when you're smiling at me right now.

Ashley tries to cover up her big goofy smile but can't. she turns off the lights in the hallway...

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in the opposite room to Washington, D.C. stands a restaurant. the tourist area of DC anyway. this gives the main players a chance to dine out incognito.

Mueller: so how are you enjoying Chocolate City?

President Bump: very funny. you know that is unfair. i have made great strides with women. one of my best lawyers is a woman. the woman judge allowed me to search for my comic books so rare they won't be in the box after i check them. and the woman pilot hero. or is it heroine. women are like drugs.

Mueller dabs each corner of his mouth with his napkin to maintain his mouth. his napkin that is also his tie, the one he brings from work which comes from home. he lifts a huge big-ass pretzel in midair. and with his other hand he checks the scores on his watch.

Bump: what? what are you watching? please, Bob, give me something! throw a dog a bone. a morsel of a milkbone? this thing is driving me crazy! how long has it been? it's like this interminable surreal nightmare hanging over my neck that never ends! day after day after day...

Mueller holds a tureen of light red sauce over his head.

Mueller: well? i'm waiting. have you made your decision?

Bump: i'm thinking Mayochup. or maybe salsa rosada for my special Lady in Mexico.

Mueller: you had the opportunity to call it Fancy Sauce and you blew it. even Ketchunnaise would have been preferable. or Crussian Dressing, as in Crushing This Russian dressing.

Bump: it goes well on tomato salad. at least i'm eating healthy, my doctor said i had to start. what have you been doing? i saw you on tv.

Mueller: yeah, i did a Saturday Night Live cold open. heaps of fun. never acted before. the standing ovation and roars of sung praises i received when i entered the stage lasted an hour and 30 minutes. they're bonkers over there.

Bump: loads. i dunno, i did the Kids' Choice Awards. it was lame. all the kids ran away when they saw me. i offered them some candy from my personal doctor Candyman and a ride home but they weren't biting. my doctor who just so happens to be Michael Jackson. legends never get confirmed. i didn't think that was in the script, did your skit have a script? and i saw YOU on tv! kiss me awkwardly on both cheeks, Macron!

Macron: it's not the double-cheeks that's the awkward part.

Bump: i love you, Macron. you're my only male friend. i love your wife. she's old and blonde, my exact type. i should take you to McDonald's some time. that joint-session would have made me jittery, i hate doing those, that's why i don't do them, i need a joint to get through them, that's why i have a Candyman.

Macron: that was genuinely touching, monamie, full of French feeling. the American public have never seen you love. i am willing to do whatever is required to save the world.

Bump: legally change your name to McRon. short for McRonald. that will prove you're American.

Macron gulps. Bump finishes his salad.

Bump: *mouth full* OH MY GOD! i'm spying on your mini-tv on your watch, Bob, and WHO IS THAT VIKING MAIDEN PRINCESS WITH THE EMERALD BLUE EYES!!?

Mueller: Valerie Plame.

Bump: I AM SO SORRY. i never knew that's what she looked like! she was always a spy. if i had known. no idea. she's one of those impossible babes who get better-looking as they age! full pardon for her whole family. send her an invite to the Cream House IMMEDIATELY. *fist in the air*  Valerie Flame, porn star.

Mueller: sir, did you just turn my wrist around and use my Go Go Gadget watch to get on Instagram and like a picture of your personal lawyer Michael Cohen's hot model daughter?

Bump: wasn't me. must have been my personal assistant like all celebrities do. yeah, see? it was him, look at the comment he wrote under her pic:

Bonfire of the Hannities and a little cute fire emoji

PASSING SHOT: THE FUTURE OF THE GAME

Nadal and Federer are preparing for their moment. in many ways this is the culmination of all of their trainings since childhoods. and for Chrissie, life will never be the same. she will become a new woman.

Li Na has what looks like a stick of wood in her mouth.

Chrissie: what's that rod in your mouth?

Li: how dare you. Kei isn't like that! i'm just playin. he is. want your key?

Nadal: Nishikori? i forgot what the guy looked like.

Chrissie: got it in my pocket. though i am currently naked. *bows*

Bump: got my goggles on.

Li: no, to everything.

Roger: 42. i'm back down to 4. Rafa is stuck at 2. that Australian with the tan is number one.

Nadal: is that a pretzel? we don't have pretzels in my country. they're always covered in hot chocolate. hot dripping chocolate.

Chrissie: fellas, this is gonna be a smooth glide. i only ate one Annie's pretzel at the airport before i raced over here.

Nadal: with dipping sauce?

Roger: your rod smells funny.

Li: it's because i smash its seeds between my straight teeth. this isn't about simple salt. this is a sesame stick. known to you Westerners as the Sword of Saad. its magic is too Eastern for your understanding. better to leave it to the pros.

Chrissie: i used to be a pro.

Li: before the night is up you all will stay up. you will be done when you finish. and all the sesame will be sucked dry. be sure to leave the smokey glass of the door to your rainfall shower closed. we don't want our non-paying customers to cheat a look at the magic inside.

Li smiles form both sides of her mouth.

Roger: but you're just playing, right?

Li: all of us play, but not all of us live. truly live.

there are rumbles coming from both ends of the Yoshita, the ceiling and the roof, but the floor of action remains at a standstill. Chrissie notices the eerie green lights signaling her to arrow to the two steps to the rainfall shower.

Chrissie: oooooooooooooooooooooooou these rainfall showers are special. i forgot, that's what really drew me here. sorry, guys. they aren't on any map or travelocity review. and those aren't green lights. they are the rainforest, the canopy of rough brush covering the sun and allowing a woman to truly be naked in body and spirit, to ascend each rope of power water from the rainfall showerhead into her own bottom head. to feel nature course through her coarseness, soften her demeanor back to factory levels, and approach the world anew. safe locked trapped inside this space in the Amazon where there is no light, only the sensation of drops like hard beads from a magic necklace hitting her shoulderblades like acupuncture darts blown from a hollowed-out sesame stick, a shot of medicine across the bough, and she crumples up like a petalless flower without a bud, allowing the forest of life to woods her into submission, into a ball, to eat her, consume her, with only the faint red lights from the neon signs of the midnight donuts shop on the bluesilver Tokyo sidestreets filtering through the palms as big as people protecting her like a can-can dancer's pink feather whose stem is as long as her leg.

she takes her gentlemen each by their shoulderblade, pinching their nerve.

Chrissie: look out to the future, gentlemen. what do you see? at there? the yellow and purple streaks of the hot city. 24 hours busy. never enough time to think but to build computers to think for us. never enough time to take a long slow sip of hard coffee, long enough to taste the bitter shell of the bean, so we buy soft coffee out of a vending machine. nobody has time to win a toy for their sweetie anymore. look at all the Winnie the Poohs still on the shelf at that booth down there. the yellow forms a solid whale that the roof cannot hold the weight of. a whale with red eyes. nobody has time for love. we are the product of progress. and so we do our due diligence to express ourselves to ourselves. before our feelings get in the way and die. before our morals become molasses. we let our fucking do our talking!

Roger and Rafa are just there, on the bed, their butts itchy from the mattress made of microscopic cotton balls, their dicks flattened to the point of touching the unrugged floor like unrolled saltwater taffy, swaying in the cold nippy air from the window blasted open by the woman of the group, biding their remaining time in this once-in-a-lifetime fantasy.

Roger: that was the greatest pep talk i've ever been scolded with. do you want to be my coach?

Chrissie: sex coach?

Roger: sure, everything, i need a guru in my life.

Nadal: i haven't moved an inch. i've just been listening. my penis is sleeping. rested up and rarin to go.

Chrissie: stoic is sexy, this one time. everyone got on their boots?

Nadal: i even got on my Bombas socks underneath. for the explosion.

Chrissie: there won't be any cleanup i can assure you. i'm catching all your friendly fire.

she violently removes the white bedsheets from all around the bed in a swoosh and tears them a new one by poking holes in them with her long nails and generally tearing them apart in two. she makes her men lie down on the exposed part of the bed with the protruding springs.

Chrissie: i want us all to bond over feeling the pricks of the world together, cult-style.

the fucking is fast and furious. and in a flash. not that it takes seconds to cum but the trio create an environment of ungovernable demoniac fuming concentric clouds of tornadic tempest that are too hot to see clearly. knees to the groin for pleasure, elbows bending awkwardly, toes bitten, tongues licked, buttholes sucked of their juices, the swallowing of an entire buttock. and the main coarse has finally arrived at the table of love. a little dinner bell rings in Chrissie's head.

Chrissie: my biological clock has been rung. i am woman, hear me score!

she balds from all her hair being pulled out by the various tennis legends. herculean hunks of hair by the hunks.

they approach the sacred vagina with their train of cocks. Roger the locomotive, Nadal the caboose.

Roger places himself inside with a neighborly knock. no bones. Nadal has no idea what's going on, his head is spinning his eyes in every which direction along the orbital axis.

Roger: i've named my penis Andrews the Arificial Turkey Baster. it's Thanksgiving time!

Chrissie: uunngghhhhhhhhh. fill my cup with milk. don't waste a drop outside. packed with protein.

Nadal follows soon after before Chrissie can blink and lick her fresh wound.

Nadal: that was the practice turkey. this is the real thanksgiving thing. for insurance. we don't have Thanksgiving in my country, we're in a siesta when 3PM rolls around for the feast.

Chrissie: oh no! it's too much! i can't hold it all! my tungsten bottle's gonna break! auunghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Roger: *holding her hand and comforting her bald head with strokes* think of a balloon.

she allows herself one moment of respite breath, she arches her back to the shining moon up in the maroon sky above, her peepers catching a glimpse of its rays. her vulva is shaped in a perfect V as her toes stand up on end out of her boots tossed like a bullet to the chandelier above. her arms stretch into an inverted triangle swimmer's pose, her sharp fingertips stanced clasped in prayer ready to cut the water in two. she looks like the perfect silvery butterfly.

Nadal: *screaming at the top of his lungs* there is no God! WE make life!

TMIT: FIVE DEAD

1. tell us the problem with you in five words: CLICK HERE AT THIS LINK

2. 5 things you want in life: eternal cervical post-clitoral mature orgasm, eternal life that doesn't get boring, eternal bitcoin (must be waterproof), the full collection of all the Gunsmoke radio episodes, and one opportunity to write, direct, and act in my own short-film segment for Imagemakers on PBS.

3. 5 things you need to quit: remove the write/direct/act clause in my contract, they never understand what i'm saying/ that time machine i got that effectively nullifies the need for Heaven/ non-cowboy love stories on film/ my romance with my next-door neighbor that's causing Black Bolt to gossip/ and my staff that only works if i use the word "thine" with the "smite" and the "enemies"

4. 5 things you require in a lover: to be kind as the next Doctor Who, wise as the Hermione on Broadway, as beautiful as Teddy on Bob's Burgers, as ginger as Deadpool, and not accused of anything by the media

5. 5 things you are tired of: Wiki backpages, wars on information, lack of faith in Shy Kawhi Leonard, Joker without his makeup (he looks creepy), and sleep

i have a thing for shy guys. has Marilyn Manson decided that music has passed him by and his era of controversy is just over?

bonus: what 5 things will you never share on social media? the location of Cobain's Daphne Blue strat, the real reason bakers add one to the dozen (it involves a way to use fried dough), the real ingredients in Five Alive (spoilers: six fruits are used, including a way to use a lemon), the one piece of pop culture that has yet to be turned into a meme, and the Royal Baby's name.

CLICK HERE FOR TMI TUESDAY

SCHOOL

learned:

* my fish dream involves the Gorton's Fisherman in nothing BUT his yellow rain slicker and slick tugboat hat. 87% of women achieve orgasm whilst fantasizing about Gorton. i can totally see this, Gorton-rescuing-the-mermaid roleplay. we need someone after The Most Interesting Man In The World went to Mars for no good reason in the worst advertising blunder of all time. the Gorton graybeard is the only one i trust, i don't trust monks or judges. thinking of sporting one myself. but my beard will turn gray before it ever covers my chin. have you seen Gorton---may i call him Gorton?---recently? instead of a scarf around his neck he has this heavy blue tugging rope. i wonder if that's accidental.

* Finding Nemo as an existential thinkpiece on A&E.............back in the '80s when A&E used to be what IFC is now

* agent: you're cooling off.
Fish Man: not funny.

* agent: Fishfellas, huh?!
Fish Man: Scorsese's still alive? i heard he got gunned down on one of his film sets. i'm not trying to be grim i really actually heard this.

* Fish Man: i want to be an artist..............a real artist.
agent: this is gonna hurt less coming from someone who loves you.........your photography? you forgot to take the lens cap off on ALL of your pictures for ten years.

* Fish Man: just do your job.
agent: fine.....................but can i borrow 5 dollars?

* Fish Man: see i was doing this thing with the thumbs up and thumbs down.............it was more profound before facebook.............hoping now that facebook's over my art can come back.

* SNL rookies: we're just here for the wine...

* Fish Man: Roger!
Roger: your hug was a little clammy. you look like shit. i do love the earring.

* Fish Man: i'm not sure what you look like under the makeup, but you sound like Jerry Seinfeld.
Roger: i get that a lot.

* Roger: i wanted to check in with you first before...
Fish Man: go for it.
Roger: thanks, bud. happy 420. i actually landed the part months ago. before your agent even knew about it. friends gotta be honest, yes?

* Fish Man: yeah these two fingers here........there's a question mark......did God really touch Adam's finger after all.........are we really here?...

* agent: so Fish Man. have you paid my phone bills yet?
Kyle Mooney: Beck Bennett, my lifelong friend and roommate, why do you get more skits than me? and a girlfriend?
Beck Bennett: cos i'm handsomer.

* Fish Man: see this red paint? this is the first ever film fade-to-red.

* Fish Man: this newspaper i hold in my fin............is worth 10 billion dollars........it's the last newspaper ever printed.

* Fish Man: hi. you're an SNL rookie, right?
man: sort of. one of the nondescript castmembers.
Fish Man: i know how that used to feel like. hey can you help me finance the sequel to this indie bear movie i did?
man: Seth MacFarlane?
Fish Man: no, the The Mighty Boosh one.

* Fish Man: who are all these fucktards?
Roger: the friends i bought. hey Adam Driver's having a bender. he's driving us all there. get it?
Fish Man: Adam Driver's hot.
Roger: well he's ugly-hot like me, that's why i'm secretly into him. hey you gotta get out more. live a little. photography is for idiots.
Fish Man: but that's what my art is doing for me: living, stretching out, expressing myself.
Roger: at least when you were a dental assistant the room you were in was more spacious than this gallery, you had room to swim around.

* Fish Man: *after screaming* you're right. the acoustics in here aren't the best. at the dentist's i would scream for ten minutes straight and everyone would run away, even in the middle of root canals.

* Fish Man: i hate you, Roger. it's not fair. i was the one versed in The Force, you still don't know what that is. hey SNL, why the fuck do you keep cutting all my sketches, too original for you!!?
Fish Man: *sniff* excuse me while i inhale this line of my own fish-eggs...

* Fish Man: hey Roger, your joke is wrong. triathlon is swimming, biking, running.

* Fish Man: i'm homeless. but i have my integrity. and i kept my photos.
Roger: you didn't have to keep your photos. i coulda instagrammed them for you.
Adam Driver: this is our son, Crispy.
Fish Man: terrible name for a fish.
Adam Driver: but cool name for a human. it's like a skateboarder's name.

* Roger: is it for sale?
Fish Man: fine. one fuck. be gentle. i won't remember it anyway. fish forget.
Roger: this check probably won't clear. just being honest.

* Robert De Niro: why am i the third man on the billboard after two fish? i know i know, i stopped caring about my career after 2002. Shark Tale was the beginning of the end.

* Roger: is that a real tommy gun?
Fish Man: fade to red.....................

CLICK HERE, RIGHT HERE AT THIS LINK

happy weekend, my babies. do fish dream? of course. a fish is dreaming your entire existence right now. and it's gone, the fish forgot all about you in one second. one word will describe my weekend this weekend: Cholula

PASSING SHOT: TOKYO KNOCKS THRICE (III)

at the Summit President Bump is at Kim's red snow-covered Palace. Kim is not there cos he wasn't invited.

Bump: well the official White House line is his invitation got lost in the mail.

what surrounds all the dignitaries in attendance is a countrywide blanket of orange snow.

Bump is checking the scores on his watch. he's also looking at Robert Mueller through his watch complete his meal at Le Diplomate.

Bump: aw, man, this summit sucks. there's nothing to do here. how's it over on your end, Bob? looks busy tonight. how's the Meatball Over Manicotti? that meatball is the size of my ball. i want to be there with you where the action is.

Mueller dabs each corner of his mouth with the longish wool napkin and doesn't touch the food on his goldplated dish.

Mueller: this food is too dry, too bland, too merican, it needs spicing up..

Bump: what is it? like hamburgers?

Mueller: no, that would be German, German is exciting. i need some outside spices.

Bump: that Yasmin from MSNBC is an interesting woman. spices up the weekends. i do opposition-research viewing only. she looks like a bird. an exotic painted bird from a faraway rainbow land. where Toucan Sam lives. i'd love to go toe-to-toe with her, then cheek-to-cheek and finally beak-to-beak. they're right, i need to broaden my palette of taste color, blondes aren't the only fun ones. i'm growing weary of Laura Ingraham. she used to be the model for my Ivanka, i wanted Ivanka to grow up to be just like her, that was the blonde way. but then Ivanka's cosmetics line was one of Laura's sponsors to get boycotted. i'm into browns now. hey is it just me or is it too quiet on the streets? hey did you guys ever find my box of rare Batman comicbooks when you visited my lawyer's home? asking for a friend. i know he took them the fink i've been trying to find those everywhere, sweeping Bump Tower.

Mueller: you see, i have a story to tell. it's taking some time cos it will be a long story. and i won't tell it till my meal matches my story. i won't say a word till my meal is prepared in such a way that time is taken, care is given, and the right ingredients come together after a slow cook. waiter, over here, i'm not ready yet.

The Mooch barges out of the kitchen flaps.

Mooch: yes, sir, right away sir. i'll take your food back again and let it simmer some more in the back a while longer.

Mueller: why can't you wave your magic wand and join me?

Bump realizes this and appears next to Bob at his table-for-one.

Bump: whatcha doin'?

Mueller: oh just shooting the breeze, bumping gums.

a cloud of black smoke dissipates. Mueller quickly barges outside after spotting someone. his mission is to encounter any Russians. he bumps into Putin on the street.

Mueller: excuse me, sir, can I borrow your time? do you know a recipe to spice up an American burger?

Putin: deermeat. trust me.

Bump: can i do it, Bob?

Mueller: no.

Bump: *hands crossed and eyes baby* PUHLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEASSSSSSSSSSE???????

Mueller: okay, one time, keep your voice down, genteel patrons are trying to dine.

Bump stands up abruptly. the North Korean servants who were catering to his every want leap from out of Bump's watch's screen and into the D.C. restaurant. from DK to DC. they hail in a cloud of black smoke and bow profusely but dart their eyes upward just a touch to see if Bump is choking or not.

Mueller: wishbone. my favorite Russian dressing.

Bump points at Mueller with vicious vision.

Bump: YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU'RRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEE FIIIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRRRRREDDDDDDDDDDD!!! wow. that made my hair stand on end. trust me, i can feel it. my boss is right, there's nothing like the real thing. this is so much more satisfying than tweeting a firing. too cold. i'm a live performer at heart, i need the Broadway stage!

Mueller: satisfied?

Bump eats a Snickers with Almonds for dessert.

________________________

Chrissie: maybe it's just the lighting. dunno. your frame is off. you should have never cut your long hair, Nadal, that gave you strength, not those bad wifebeater shirts you wear with the sleeves cut out. you look like a slob watching tv on the couch.

Nadal: it's not called frame, it's called set. never go bowling on the first date.

Roger: i thought it was an inning. i should have gone into cricket, i have a cricketer's body.

Chrissie: now why YOU cryin? i got ya, my glistening god. jeez. the food better arrive quick.

Li Na knocks with the sweating cuisine. she has a fortune cookie in her mouth.

Li: *giggling* you still haven't figured it out? what ties all these rooms together? they each have the same thing.

Chrissie: soup's on! piping-hot tonkotsu for you Nada and bibimbap for you, Roger That. and here are your chopsticks that are also tamagotchis. i also ordered us some mini-popsicles from the Disney's Frozen line. i got me the white mini-popsicle, you Roger get the blue half-popsicle, and you Raffaelo get the purple wedge.

Roger: *still wiping tears on his elbows* what is this supposed to symbolize?

Chrissie: oh, lost youth. we've all been through it. now let's get down to business.

Chrissie pulls up a lounge chair she folds down by the bed and sets up.

Chrissie: i can't wait to watch. i've never seen you two play before. live doubles.

Nadal climbs on top of Roger and begins shaking up and down. he rides Roger's penis with his butt.

Roger: no need to pick your butt anymore, isn't it freer with no clingy shorts? i still hate that del Potro.

Nadal: easy, amigo, you need to understand the Spanish mind. i can defeat delPo because i speak his language. you see me on top of you? you see me reach high up? i can touch the sky. well the ceiling. you see how high i get? that's the secret. that;s how i'm able to beat you like a drum so many times. like i'm beating you now. my ball has spin which jumps up, over your puny racquet. your little roger doesn't stand a chance, much like your little roger now. don't look up at the ceiling lights, they'll blind you. tenis has been betty betty good to me. notice i said tenis, when it's spelled with one n it's pronounced tenEESE.

after 100 thrusts up and down, with one more for good measure, Nadal's knees firmly buried into Roger's chest nipples that they spill milk, Nadal swings his junk away from Roger's nose and Rafa takes off his fuzzy wristbands and throws them against the huge open window-wall as if he had just finished another performance on court.

Chrissie: *hand on elbow* the court of 40 love. not public opinion.

Roger: *quavering* that was a hard lesson to learn.

no streaks. Fed gets up and sprays all over the lounge chair. with Chrissie in it. Nadal sprays all over the bed, with Roger in it.

Chrissie: that was fun. now for the main course. oh wait no you guys have to have the right shoes on for the atmosphere. right wear for the weather. gotta have the correct footwear to fuck. the right boots to knock those boots. we all gotta wear our heels. i got my boots on. what are yours, Nadal?

Nadal: Tecovas. only the finest leather for my footsies. *he rubs along his ankle to his kneecap*

Chrissie: of course. get them out of your closet. Roger?

Roger: i had Paraboots. but i wore them out. from disuse. gonna have to buy new ones here in this foreign country.

Chrissie: get to steppin. go out into that strange snow. the weather is right. it's not too cold, which is eerie. in the meantime how bout an appetizer?

Chrissie lines up both men's buttocks together and uses the chopsticks to tickle their assholes.

Chrissie: pucker factor. i love being the woman in this situation.

Roger trudges along the edge of the city in the orange snow barefoot looking for boots. it is barely recognizable but still trying to be a Japan snow, however imperceptible, measured and calm and beautiful, lightly drifting as falling. he encounters a huge white boulder on top of which he spots clothes left to wet: a young woman's plain bluejeans and brown loafers, and fuzzy seventies sweater with pink bow.

PASSING SHOT: TOKYO KNOCKS THRICE (II)

Gladyce and Doryce are lost running around the city which refers to walking. but they are having a gay old time cos they're together lost.

Gladyce: penaten.

Doryce: i know, right? terrible name for a baby butt cream. the poor dearie is gonna grow up to be slammed in the penitentiary!

Gladyce: look at these vitamins, dear. OLLY vitamins. fancy. only found on the Asian markets?

Doryce: everything that is a unique take on an old thing can only originate from Japan. there is no other starting point, it's what they do here. i'm leery of vitamins. i can skateboard on my own.

Gladyce: love is my drug. get those skateboard punks when they're young and still have training wheels on their boards.

Doryce: i'm rubbing off on you! for the worse but at our age it doesn't matter anymore. while they can still compete in the Olympics. i sense we are being followed.

____________

Jeb Bush takes penitent footsteps darkening his new temporary room. he pushes the door and the Yoshito tries to move but hasn't the will. he hangs his head low as a dog so his key doesn't quite fit. he slumps on the bed and covers his large face with his big hands. Barbara Bush sits beside her baby son comforting his shoulder with her stern willowy branch of an arm.

Barbara: there there Jebsy. i hold you as i would any baby. before when touch wasn't used for screens. i'll kiss anyone. i'm fine. i'm with Robin. and she's fine. i'm more worried about the ol' Skydiver. i think he was jealous of me. he wanted to be the Enforcer of the family. the patriarch, but i was always too busy taking his name. how is Georgsy. in Maine that's how we talk, everyone is -sy.

Jeb: *face like a beefsteak tomato* Barnsey is fine. don't know about Dad. he's a wreck. he held your hand till the very end. i'm a mess. i miss you so much, mom. i feel i let you down. i could have won that Presidential run...

Barbara: i feel for him. to lose the love of your long life is the lonelieset of lonelies. it's become a Jessica Tandy/Hume Cronyn situation for me. i won't engage in rumor as i've never done. speculation sells but may incur the wrath of Nikki Haley. i just praise it up to my faith in Ferris Bueller. it's better to have dignity than a dictatorship. but i still have a few old friends at the Justice Department i'm keeping an eye on. i can really look after them now. no secrets. no you couldn't have. but i'm at peace with it. look at me, look at your mother.

Jeb turns around to see his mother's bright white hair turn back brown. she smiles gently.

Barbara: the old ways are scoffed at. they are accused of being genteel but they were at least gentle. in front of the scenes. they serve as the bedrock, and even old wrinkle-filled fossils like me will melt into the lava of nostalgia. time flies, and in the blink of an eye it's all over. now pull yourself together and get ready for Jamie Gangel's interview. here she is now.

the crone knocks the door with her nose.

Barbara: hello, Jamie, how are you. nice to see you again.

Jamie: hello. madam, i see that you are well.

Jeb: oh. you're nice and everything but you're getting old. i was hoping for Robin Meade. can i see her? got any more of those perfectly-good paratrooping planes in the back?

Barbara: that's why we agreed to that interview. and that specific HLN correspondent. Robin.

_____________________

in another adjacent alley, the two top lawyers Jill Wine-Banks and Joyce Vance decide to split a room and end up on the floor. kissing and tearing each others' clothes off and kissing some more.

Jill: i couldn't take my eyes off you. when we were on MSNBC this morning together. you were in the Hollywood square just below me. like i am now on top of you. two boxy dames. you have such a command of the law. it rivals mine. and you're so cute cos you're one year younger than me. not really but who's counting. ravish me you raven-haired goddess! they're right, i really need to expand my options, there's more to life than blondes!

Joyce: you are so hot! you really have an engine down there! we're only as old as we feel.

Jill: that's literally true in my case.

Joyce: thank you for this hot comfort. you've helped me heal. i've been grieving the loss of my father for some time now.

Jill: it never goes away. and i'm an expert in time. i'm always on time. there is only now. hey what's that cute little white football with the red A you're carrying on your hip?

Joyce: my Alabama football. my good-luck charm. you won't believe where it's clipped on. here's my engagement letter.

Jill: oh honey this is no time to get married! did you say Bama? i have a friend....she's just a friend. save that football. we'll definitely use it later. you know what really sold me on you was your crooked lips when you talk. your sidemouth delivery of speech is hot. sidemouth-talking has been an attraction of ours in our clan for centuries.

_______________________

back at MSNBC in the morning. the next morning. Nikki, Chris Matthews, Brian Williams.

Nikki: so how was your vacation together? it's not a bromance until you guys make it official. am i repeating myself? i don't repeat myself. i missed you guys. my guys are more rough.

Chris: it was a Holy Week like none other. i will never forget it. it was holy. we were nice to each other.

Brian: i needed the week. to recuperate from the everlasting surreal nightmare. otherwise i would never get a vacation from this.

Chris: you know i know i'm not supposed to say this, but the more Presidential you get, the hotter you get. now that i see you again up close under the hot lights...

Nikki: don't bro me if you don't know me.

___________________________

in their room, which is a honeymoon suite, Molly Qerim and Jalen Rose are getting busy.

Jalen: get on up..............get on up................please, now is the time!

Molly's naked ass fills the entire breadth of the room.

Jalen: baby i'm trying to take a selfie of us, getting your good side. but i can't fit all of you in the frame!

Molly: *waiting and looking disgusted* did you put it in? i can't feel it.

Jalen is trying to focus his penis in the middle of her crack to take the best picture. it fuzzes in and out.

Molly: are you even slapping me with it? my butt hasn't moved an inch.

the motel moans and superfreak shrieks begin, and last all through the night long.

Moritz Wagner deadlegs it out from under their cream bed. cream-colored sheets.

Moritz: now this THIS is what my ears have been waiting for! i shall use your sounds to create the modern opera! modern for the Instagram age! your sex shall be the template. for what is music but another orgasm? i shall experiment with sound, my i-operas shall sound like none other, grand and grandiose and grim like my grandfather. i'll be the male Bjork. what? i've had to concentrate on my music minor now. this is all CBS's fault. if Michigan had won, i'd be a bigger German star than Nowitzki or The Hof. now i'm forced to take philosophy classes with know-it-alls with big heads who get Ritz Bits with loads of cheese stuck in their handlebar broom mustaches.

Molly busties out with a "we hear ya!". Jalen is singing to himself.

Molly, Jalen, and Moritz all high-five each other in a triangular tandem, the couple Molly and Jalen in full coitus.

PASSING SHOT: TOKYO KNOCKS THRICE

Chrissie's eyes glaze over themselves. she licks her lips at this unexpected fortune.

Chrissie: what's going on here? why is it that you two are fused at the hip? like you can't discuss one without the other. you two are never separate entities.

Roger: oh no. not him. he's on my hip. please, no talk of hip fusing, that's down the line of my surgery bucket list if my latest back folds like a brown paperbag.

Chrissie: how did he know which room we were in? should i answer him back?

Roger: i've been through this before. it's no use hiding. he's a mad dog when it comes to his sniffing. he'll locate you eventually. his knees eventually will recover and he'll be able to run again.

Chrissie starts to push her finger down. before she can activate the key Nadal is at their door, still eating the half-banana, and crying.

Nadal: i found you, my love.

Chrissie: *blushing* thank you. don't mind me i'm naked.

Nadal: not you. though i was taught to respect my elders. my legends i mean. Roger, we really need to stop meeting like this. we need to hash things out once and for all. the frequent miles are killing my black bank account.

Roger: i'm not in love with you! stop following me!

Nadal: but it's fate we were thrown together at such an early age. you wouldn't be who you are today without me. and, how you say in English?, vice-versa.

Roger: i dunno but it's wrong. i think it's vi-SA versa though i always found it strange to pronounce vice like vi-SA.

Nadal: i have my visa. you can learn to love me. just like you learned how to come to net finally. forget these women, womens are crazy.

Chrissie: i'm standing right here. but it's true. well you're already here so you might as well come in. don't get on the bed, i don't want to mess it up. we fuck standing up. would you like to order with us some room service before? some menage munchies?

Nadal: please. i must bed. i must let my knees rest.

Chrissie: you know now that i get a good look at you as my eyes adjust to the newly-on lights, you don't quite cut as impressive a figure as on tv. the muscles seem to have been that state where the balloon deflates to a point where it can't be popped anymore? it's tough to describe. it's like you have rather spindly boring legs, legs which bore holes, and an awkward and gangly frame like a wedge of watermelon. your spine is bifurcated into rods, as if you rest on your backbone. your head looks like it could swivel around. your arms are coils and your feet are on rollers. your profile from the side looks like your nose is a carrot. as you stand there on the rug with your arms in triumph, you appear to be a kind of silly scarecrow Walt Disney would draw in his early days, presumably when he was still drinking.

Nadal: that is the hottest pick-up line i've ever heard. are you an Artist? the girls in Valencia don't speak like that. they do with much candor but i can never understand what they're saying, they're always whispering and giggling.

Chrissie: good. i hope you feel better. why were you crying earlier?

Nadal: oh. i was just thinking about the end of Adventure Time. that will be the saddest day in the world. that is my favorite cartoon.

Nadal begins to sing. his broken English disappears when he sings, it's just English:

Nadal: *tearing up around his nose* come away with me....................to the butterflies and bees......and then the rest of the song in the end-credits no one ever saw. i once got stung on the nose by a butterfly on the court. that's why i stay WAY back behind the baseline.

Chrissie: where's that room service!?

TMIT: THOU SHALT NUDE

1. write your 3 sexual commandments and share them here at Tmi Tuesday:

* thou shalt not know a person until thou biblically knows a person
* the Parting of the Red Sea was actually the first documented case of climate change
* i don't know what substance is for the first year, but the perfect wedding gift to give Prince Harry is a chisel...
* bonus 11th Commandment: do not see The Last Temptation of Christ for bingo night at your church picnic

2. tell us your 3 Ds of relationship destruction.

* Special Dark chocolate: this chocolate seems sophisticated. it seems to cater to the coastal elites and media class. the college professors who weren't accused. i tried to get into it....................but i can't it's too sweet. chocolate shouldn't be that strangely sweet. it's like meeting a new person for the first time, it's slightly off. chocolate should have heft and nuts.

* DDs: the only thing which makes me weaker in the knees than DDs are DDDs but those don't rhyme. and only alien girls have three breasts.

* Carson Daly. this man is sexual chocolate. he's no Ryan Seacrest. anyone else find American Idol weird now? i mean it's on Sunday night. nobody wants to watch American Idol the night before the work week begins when you're pacing on your bed, you have enough numbers to call. why did they bring this show back? Seacrest looks uncomfortable. Clay Aiken's work is not done walking the broad way teaching us all how to be human.

3. WikiHow lists several steps to seduce someone. what are your top 3 moves of seduction?

have you seen those WikiHow cartoons? i dunno but that anime needs to be on adult swim. i play hard to get. i tell them i'm a poor writer, my health is failing despite doing yoga every morning, and i need help. the quickest way to stop an instagram DM conversation cold is to tell them you need help.

4. what is your sexual healing? putting a Marvin Gaye record on the phonograph, vaping before i go to my job where i telemarket at that company that's trying to end smoking amongst teens before the next election, 100%, Finish It, know the truth at The Truth Dot Com. tobacco and all that. and audition for Imagine Dragons for the 86th time.

5. would you attend a class that taught you how to have an orgasm? this sounds like my college experience. you start off wanting that liberal-arts degree but you end up a lifelong liberal. i still don't know what Rhetoric is supposed to be. then you start concentrating more on your minor than your major. you attend strip shows for the first time cos it's part of your Porn Class that's like Art History or the History of Literature but very narrowly connected to English. one thing that Porn Class taught me: there are good people in this world. and i was doomed to become a writer. that's two things. see? progress. progressive. i would attend such a class. but i'd be the only one in the room. even the teacher wouldn't be there. i'd have to teach myself how to orgasm. which is what i did in my dorm room for four wasted years when everyone was asleep instead of trying my hand at naughty underground comics for the school paper or something. at least put your frustrations to good art.

bonus: in which areas of your life are you overly confident? overly or overtly? i suppose it's the same thing. i need to get confident. i need sexual confidence. thankfully there's a WikiHow cartoon for that...

CLICK HERE FOR TMI TUESDAY

KELSEY DON'T NEED NO GRAMMER

learned:

* i want my writing to be leveled up so high that the Cartoon Network show Level Up will be allowed to continue to some sort of natural conclusion. at least to run out that season. i mean they LITERALLY tore down the background props as the actors were finishing their lines. they took the mic out of Aimee Carrero's hand. the world needs more Aimee Carrero. her spunkiness must not hole up in Aspen. that was the first time i ever saw Eric Andre. who knew?

* grammarly: to grammar righteously

* Jake: i had the perfect opening line. but this toothbrush was in my mouth.

* Jake: wait i think i pushed the wrong button. you have to pay for this dating site? no. bye. i mean who's to say i won't find my soul mate at Petco?

* Jake: hey Eva, we both swiped right, it's fate.
Eva: i'm not on Tinder. who is this? how did you get this number?

*Jake: hey Eva, if we dated our couple name would be Javanka.
Eva: i voted for Pence to be at the top of the ticket.

* Jake: what? you thought i was just housesitting? look inside yourself.

* Jake: also, i think i love you.
Eva: how did you override my block?
Jake: sorry. i meant to say always i think i love you. thanks, grammarly.

* Jake: i spent all day trying to come up with clever catchphrases and film quotes. but then i realized i've never seen a movie or watched tv. i haven't eaten in weeks.
Eva: okay okay! YOU choose the restaurant! jeez! you don't have to be a baby about it!

* Jake: hey. Eva?
Eva: hey. *hug*
Jake: first impressions: it looks like you're not wearing any underwear under your polka-dot dress there. it's fluttering too much.

* Jake: Café Regular?
Eva: why you crying? do you have IBS? don't worry, this café serves prunes.
Jake: no, thinking of the cancellation of Regular Show again.
Eva: i love Cartoon Network! you look like Eric Andre.
Jake: yeah that's a thing now ever since the cancellation of Level Up.

* Jake: are you named after that anime?
Eva: what, just cos i'm?...................look inside yourself. where's my purse? oh. there it is. i dropped it.
Jake: very funny. my name is Finn, nice to meet you. Jake was my stage name.
Eva: nice to meet you. my real name was Kelsey all along.

* write the future, right the future. not copied from that Ronaldo ad.

CLICK HERE, RIGHT HERE AT THIS LINK

happy weekend, my babies. stay indoors tonight. there are no fireworks for Friday the 13th. (edit: redacted)

PASSING SHOT: IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT ON TWITTER (III)

a strange man with long hair, uncouth beard, and willie mustache. unrecognizable. it's Boehner. he wears his polkadot bandana under his jeans shorts as a belt. he has Paul Ryan with him. they commiserate over an untapped keg of beer on its side.

Boehner: well young buck, you thought it would be easy to eliminate welfare. your college dream has been shattered. how do you feel?

P Ryan: relieved. i can finally get that haircut to fix my crow's nest. make my hair presentable when i visit my wife and kids.

Boehner: don't relieve yourself on me. little hard when you hold that Gavel like a croquet mallet, huh? this isn't exactly the cheap farm beer you envisioned with Wisconsin cheese, but it's better. take a swig.

P Ryan instantly gets high. he is too stoned to cough.

Boehner: i never knew there was green in green. I LOVE POT. you see this bong here that Paul used? it's simply my usual whiskey bottle, rejiggered. i call it the Boehner bong.

Fed: the loveliest shade of green is matcha.

Molly Qerim in yellow: the worst part about Michigan not winning it all is we had to come home early, i had no excuse to stay over here in the wild west. our Final Four was halved. i had to return to the dregs of my job with that knucklehead.

Jalen Rose: i must have done something right in my life to land you. i guess i had an extra foul in my backpocket after all.

a small school from Baltimore wins the tournament. but no one cares. it gets swamped in the ratings not with the Masters but with the Country Music Awards, for the first time in history.

Molly: *addressing the narrator* no messages, just fun. more a past life. yes, but The Boys From Balty got a win at night.

Kenan Thompson: i am the patriarch of the Ball family. never lost.

Breanna Stewart in her evening makeup: yeah actually I never lost.

Kenan: woah! you are a tall drink of water. that's never said of a woman. you are my amazon queen. with a gummy mouth, my perfect woman! lay it on me, Bre, tell me how wrong i am.

Canelo takes a bite from a McDonald's hamburger of Siberian deermeat. Putin looks on with glee in his teeth. Canelo's red hair starts to fall out.

Grayson Allen clings to the cord of his room phone. his eyes are dreary and loose after the loss. the walls seem to be thin everywhere cos he swears he can hear his coach's ghost from beyond the grave.

Grayson: i'm gonna do it.

Coach K: now Grayson, we talked about this. all year. i'm speaking mannerly. you are a very sick person. you have the sickest shot i've ever seen. you missed the bunny which would have advanced us. Duke Nation is forgiving, it took Laettner decades to achieve the hate Patrick Reed engenders now. you go through these mood swings. ups and downs. that's called life. the life of the bipolars of the Earth's crust. don't be rash and erratic.

Grayson: i'm gonna do it. i'm gonna run away and never come back. in fact i just did it. you'll never locate my location. you'll never find me.

Coach K: now Grayson, i'm speaking to you as your Army buddy. you had that tip-in. if you just tipped the ball in the basket things would have been different. for all of us. just the tip, remember what i always teach you boys? i now do one-and-dones but you are not done, you are my one. forever family. now i'm coming in, okay? i'm in the room next door.

Bump positions Budden like an erect ragdoll with his hands to the center of his harsh orange room. he makes her stand on the spot meekly while he turns around, he gathers himself for his permanent performance. he turns cruelly back around and with bloodshot eyes and foaming mouth and a shade side he delivers the blow of death:

Bump: YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU'RRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEE FIIIIIIIIIIRRRREEEDDD!!!!

his hair gets out of place for the first time ever. his finger wags at her face so hard she bites it. she holds the glass jar with butterflies in it above her head as a shounen girl would do.

Budden: i'm not that kind of girl. i should be paying you for that. can i go now?

Bump: yes, like i said. thank you. i was hot but now i'm cool. it's just it's been a long time since i've actually said those words out loud in an open setting. feels good. the acoustics in here are malapropriately magnificent.

at the far-off last room on the floor sit Gladyce and Doryce holding hands together on the bed jumping on the bed with their butts.

Doryce: you know Kathy Griffin could always get a job doing that spokeswoman for that pill or whatever. you know that redhead i see on tv in the full pink bodysuit like she's the inside of the body? does a funny dance and cock-blocks the woman who's trying to have anniversary relations with her husband? thinks she's funny.

Gladyce: i thought that was Kathy Grifin. i remember when the inside of a body was a man. or am i thinking of that blue fairy who does the toilet paper? why did they change the blue lady? i am blue over this.

Doryce: and where is that kaiju kuseum museum that was promised us that's supposed to be around here? that video-game museum with no doors. do they have early-bird tours? Bama must be there!

the lights come back on. they are restored and recovered. but not before all of these stories are told.

Chrissie: wow. there's so much activity on this level! stories on this storey. all of these mini-dramas seem to be focused on this floor. i wonder why.

Li Na knocks on Chrissie's forehead. she giggles like a schoolgirl but doesn't cover her mouth. she speaks English forcefully. she has Nishikori under the gray puffy covers of her bed in the open-doored room across the way opposite. she giggles again. she has a flower in her mouth.

Li: oh yes. everyone's here. have you tried the new rooms? but i bet you're missing one very important guest at the moment. he's staying in R111. check your mentions.

Li tries to bow her mini-bellhop hat on top of her square head but it's fastened on by the chinstrap like a McDonald's birthday hat.

Li: i kissed Nishikori in the mouth one time and it was so magic it corrected all of his crooked teeth, heehee.

R111 is the one door that's closed at the moment. Chrissie checks her email. under the spam heading reads Tokyo tryst? Rome rendezvous?

Chrissie clicks.

the caption your cute is over a picture which slowly downloads like slatted blinds. of Nadal. in his den. sitting on a chair. naked. eating a banana.

PASSING SHOT: IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT ON TWITTER (II)

Chrissie cups his face with her hand. Roger kisses that hand and embraces her the length of her arm, undoing her pillowy crease.

Roger: Mirka doesn't know. she was just about to read your tweet when i tossed my phone up in the air and smashed it down the 17 stories of the hotel we were staying with my racquet. i'm not known for a powerful serve but that was the hardest serve i ever hit. 100 i'm sure. we're not divorcing only separating. she's taking the kids to her sister's. they do that, i'm never around so they have vacations without me.

Chrissie: i'm not exactly sure what you're saying. something about a bird. you here for a Tokyo tournament?

Roger: HELL NO. what is hell in Romansh? it's hell. Hell is Hell in any language, we are all humans destined for Hell.

Chrissie: you speak Swiss. which is just English, right?

Roger paces back and forth the considerable length of the room.

Roger: i can't believe i let Delpo into my head again, his accent is alarmingly disarming. speaking of, can i fuck you? maybe you can be some sort of jammer, what do the baseball players call it? rutbreaker. i love those baseball jocks, they're always on ESPN challenging me to a rugby match, saying they're gonna tear my knot corduroy sweater.

Chrissie: wow. this has been my dream all along. but things are moving too fast. why don't i show you round the place first. swanky room, huh? i paid for it with a credit card. look outside. smell the technology hovering my brain. it's like Tron out there, no roads, just lights. Tron was the last movie i saw and remember, cos it was the last movie that was paid for me by a date. damn you, Jimmy. everywhere you turn, buttons to push. the Yoshito, this hotel is a modern marvel. they say it is made entirely of a mech's penis. whatever that is. the tower is suffocated in lasers like a candycane lighthouse struggling to breathe. the stories move around like alive tetris puzzle pieces. except this floor. the city is purple. never all red, never all blue...

Roger: can we move this along? let's go, let's do this.

Chrissie: right here right now?

Roger: there is no other place i'd rather be.

Chrissie: i'd always imagined our first time would be at least in a bed.

Roger: this expensive Asian thread rug will catch our droppings. sorry. what are you wearing?

Chrissie: *sashaying in a twirl* can't you see?

Roger: i gander. and i gather. but i mean what are you wearing? i don't know. the brands.

Chrissie: well it's my usual. my Henley nightshirt...

Roger: i need to get over this. remove everything save the boots.

Chrissie: *smiling proudly* my Markons. spitshined them this morning, had a premonition something special would happen.

Roger: save your spit. you'll need it. it the spit. i spit on my tennis balls like golf balls. can i please slide inbetween your insanely-big tits?

Chrissie: wow. you are more of an Adonis naked than i pictured. you have perfect proportions. your dimensions are from another dimension. your asscheeks are the same size as your facecheeks.

and so the two novice lovers motorboard without a manual and with only a stickshift. standing up. Chrissie rumbles and rocks her matronly mammaries, swamping his little Switzerland-flag-red roger hiding it away in her crease. Fed is rollicking against her slappy flesh and mumbles in Swiss.

Roger: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHUGHHHHHHHHHHHH

and Roger is not known as a screamer. and he cums so hard. harder than his hardest serve. 101 mph at least. he shoots his cum like a frozen rope up to the ceiling tiles and tastefully gaudy chandeliers of the old Shinto gods, knocking out all the lights in the room. and the building. the hotel power goes off. for a second, until the ingenious sedulous Japanese kick in. the emergency power glows an eerie green in the back corners.

Chrissie: i'm exhausted. i did all the work. that required extreme coordination of limbs and sinews, i'm not getting any younger. my wrists hurt. i may never serve again.

Roger: *panting* thank you. that was hot. it cooled me down. you were my favorite player growing up, the boys in Brazil made fun of me for liking a girl. my back is broken from standing but it was worth it. i can't see you now. i went blind!

Chrissie: i'll order us room service. but it's gonna take awhile cos the food needs to be cooked over a candle. let me call my girlfriends in the interim, i must give them the play-by-play.

Roger: it's already on twitter. how do you achieve power?

Chrissie taps her phone against the back of her head.

Chrissie: darn, no bars. had one bar for one second.

she steps outside her room. she pokes her head out full of dirty blonde authoritarian hair that is all messied up but still manages to form into a bun.

Chrissie: room service?

all the other occupants in their rooms roll out of bed baked or naked and poke their heads out. in the middle of their stories. the middle of what they were doing. wondering what's going on. with the lights. they are all on the R floor. Chrissie's room is R611.

one drop of rain falls from the sky.

PASSING SHOT: IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT ON TWITTER

"have you tried the new thing?"

Chrissie Evert was a woman who knew she packed. and not just her clothes to galavant around the world spreading her tennis knowledge on the benighted. which was mostly the United States, the world pretty much were cultured on the sport of princes. she was the envy of her best friend who couldn't find her attractive, and of the male commentators on ESPN who loved everytime she wore one of those flowery prints which highlit just how massive her tits were. her breasts were sources of great pride and wonder, Chrissie was old but her front frame kept her vigorous and youthful, the entre of trays which welcomed you to her world of high-breeding, eternal beauty, the elegance of the ponytail and the wooden racquet, and a granny's experienced love. her history preceded her, but of course nobody remembered her playing days. she was simply the hot milf who never could let the sport go, and was teaching the young whippersnappers who were ebony queens and pregnant themselves. and did charity tournaments for unknown Hollywood celebs and the worthy Bud Collins in the summers at her tucked-away mansion in Florida where there is no winter. she commiserated over the phone nights to her friend Beadle, who reminded her that you cannot be a sportscaster and a feminist.

which brought back a lot of things for Chrissie, even if the public had long since let them go. she remembers that infamous interview she gave the BBC during the height of her popularity and winning ways when it became painfully obvious to anyone observing that no matter how much of a jock she was the public wanted her to be a princess. John Major conducted the interview. Chrissie is speaking to herself through her pillow in her room at the hotel as she notices a beetle sprawl across the balcony rail:

Chrissie: i remember the blindingly hot lights. the Prime Minster was grilling me for hours as if i were at a grandstanding Congress hearing. i was not one to showboat so i stood there quietly like a dumb-jock mouse and answered all the invasive entries into my personal life. they angrily shouted questions at me but i was not the President. they demanded to know why i broke it off with Lloyd, why wasn't i loyal to Lloyd. in truth i had forgotten all about Lloyd, i was onto the exciting dark underground Jimmy, which they didn't like. relations between our two superpowers have since cooled, but they were as hot as those lights. not so much thawed as cooled. the Minister demanded to know why i made that sexy Lipton commercial where i rub the glass over my neck and throat.

John Major: tea is not meant to titillate! you're playing tennis without a net, young lady!

Chrissie: it was the '80s!

i couldn't believe they found that objectionable. i still had my lesbian haircut which Martina groomed into me. and a frumpy '80s one-piece on those palms and pines and climes. reclining on a sandy lounge chair. anyway that was the very same night Jimmy cheated on me so i wasn't so thrilled to delve deep into my investigations. i wanted to get back to those 17 match-points i saved. i was done with men, i was feeling my haircut.

Chrissie receives a knock on her phone. it's Kris Budden.

Budden: preparing for 420? i suddenly found myself alone in a hotel room with the President. so i decided to step outside for a phone break.

Chrissie: smart girl, what's up?

Budden: i was doing my remote for my tribute to Dick Enberg.

Chrissie: i'm gonna miss that Dick. this is giving me ideas...

Budden: prepare yourself for the invasion. your inbox will be inundated with spambots up the wazoo. pay no mind to any of the forwards claiming to be from celebrities and tennis celebrities, they're not real, they're net traps.

Chrissie checks her watch for scores. there's one from Roger Federer. it simply reads your cute.

Chrissie: that is so adorable. i have always secretly had a thing for Roger. but i dare not tell anyone. i thought he was the one to restore my faith in humanity. and men. he is the paragon of virtue. his sweat glistened in the Australian sun this past Major, he had that surfer hair though i'm sure he doesn't know how to swim. his racquet is a golden trident. he is a god amongst men, he will never retire, he is the Ageless Wonder as Fowler keeps braying, i like the McKendry Chris better. he is the most ordinary-looking superstar we've ever seen, he doesn't look like he would be athletic at all if you cornered him at a busstop. that's what makes him cheeky and cute.

she types exactly as much as she says above into the body of the box. but she doesn't send the paragraph back to Roger's private email account. she's a grandma so she's bad with tech. instead she sends the message to her twitter account which she accidentally starts and with an illfated push of one button this becomes unbeknownst to her her very first tweet. on a platform she knows nothing about. it immediately gets a million sycophant likes and a million and one jealous unlikes and is retweeted throughout the unknown universe.

Chrissie receives a message through her phone, the same phone Budden was just on.

Chrissie: moshi moshi?

Roger: where are you?

Chrissie: is this...........Roger Federer? funny, i was just thinking about you. i'm sure Mirka won't mind. i have too many Ms in my life. what's up i'm busy. no i'm not i'm being a petulant 13yo girl.

Roger: where are you? i need to speak with you right now.

Chrissie: you sound just like Quentin Tarantino. so distinctive. but without all the baggage and luggage. you should ask me, i know how to pack for a trip. i really have nothing to do now, i live off my pile of money like a bed, semiretired, travel the globe on a whim. go where i'm not needed. bored mostly. i've been staying at this swanky new pad in Tokyo for several months now. lounging. chillaxing. not sure how i got the reco. it was swimming in my inbox one day. i can forward you the directions. or the coordinates. come up and see me sometime, sugar!

immediately after she puts the phone down, by turning the off-button on, Roger is at her palatial door.

Chrissie: *answering* you are fast. where did you come from?

Roger: *panting* no i am not. look at my soaked shorts. don't look it's embarrassing. there is no finish line. Miami. where you live. where damn del Potro beat me again. i always let him do this to me. he has my psychological number. i can't beat down friends. he is not my friend anymore, he is my frenemy. i lost the Number 1 ranking again! i was doing so well, i wanted to go undefeated at my age all year and the rest of years. i'm taking off the French cos i need months for my psychoses to rest and recover. i am fragile and vulnerable and in a skipping mood. hold me.

Chrissie: come in, Friend Fed. step inside my humbleless abode.

TMIT: THE MOST CONSEQUENTIAL GOLF EVENT OF OUR TIME

i mean it was the worst of all possible worlds. apologies to all the Candide candy i ate this weekend. i will never like Jordan, his immense talent seems to be in inverse proportion to his electricity. it's like he siphons all his juice for his play and not his look. he's as good as he is boring. BUT that would have been a grandkids story, a comeback for the ages. when that almost happened but didn't, the world groaned, as that guy from Golf Channel so succinctly and eloquently put it. when Rickie Fowler misses again, by one stroke, i mean you feel for the guy. his placid demeanor and cheery sportsmanship hides all that orange from his paining brain that seeps out into his clothes. this was Rory's best chance. i'm not sure he'll have a chance like this again. you assume he will but you never know. just ask Sergio. about those heavy enchiladas he served at the Winner Dinner. i can still taste those enchiladas one week out.

turns out we are granted an outcome where Patrick is more Hydra than Captain America. thank you Trysta Krick from USA TODAY i mean America Today. that hurts me in so many ways you'll never know. i feel for his parents. i would never kick out my parents. even if they were skimming from me and tryna steal my fortune. i mean all my money is really theirs, right? i wouldn't be here if not for them. and i'm sure the golf gene got passed down from them to me too so there's that. unless i'm adopted and they kept that from me in which case...they're still your parents. the only thing that skips a generation is Skippy peanut butter.

is it just me or did that yellow emoji turn orange when i looked at it askance?

watching all Sunday i missed downloading the update. this year's tournament was that special kind of disappointment when you think there's an emoji of a treasure chest but there really isn't. right? like i could have sworn there was a treasure-chest emoji.................but it turns out there actually isn't............

1. to prepare for this week you will...
a) do 100 pushups a day
b) fall asleep to acid house
c) drink gasoline for breakfast
d) play TMI Tuesday

all of the the above, the ACT answer. i do the exact number of pushups a day One-Punch Man does. i fall asleep at my house to gasoline house, which is just a remix that is chopped and screwed, and eat acid for breakfast. citric acid. i pour orange juice on my cereal. ironically, if i couldn't do TMI Tuesday on a Monday, i couldn't do TMI Tuesday. i got a special drawing i do Tuesday mornings on insta.

2. so you entered a cunnilingus contest. what would be your special skill? you know that winning move that would render a woman weak in the knees and make her cum all over your face. cunnilingus contest, that rolls off the tongue, appropriately. i want my girlfriend to cum forever. a magical everlasting waterfall, a giant gusher i could partake from to get that heaviness out of my mouth. it's called the Popeye in the hinterlands. i move my tongue 80 degrees to the right and it expands, filling all into all the left. tuliping the tulip. i like having cum on my face, makes me feel like an equal partner.

3. would you say that any acts of bdsm are cathartic to you? if yes which ones? do you find you need those acts because you know they are cathartic? i don't do bdsm, scared to. or maybe i'm scared to try it cos i know i'll like it and become addicted and then i'll have to go out and get a job cos those plastic rawhide whips are expensive. i guess i'm not much of a goth. i suppose i can say i like trying on those long plexi spiked boots that go up to your armpits. they're supposed to go up to your armpits, right?

4. do you believe in ghosts?
aliens?
climate change?

humanity. we were making progress. we were slowly inching up there. progressing. then the internet came. who knew, right? people actually thought before that the internet would be a good idea. now stuff like the EPA is a nuisance, life is about making money or something? ghosts used to be amusement or friendly. but the ghosts of my past haunt me like orange hazard waste. aliens were fun little being things on The X-Files. even in the non-comedy episodes they were kinda hokey and corny and precious. the scariest villain was always the human CSM. now i can say without reservation and with consequence i stand by my fellow man in caravan.  

5. what is your favorite game to play that a lot of people have never heard of or don't play? there's this game called Monopoly. have you heard of it? you can only play it at McDonald's. thank you i'll be here all week. try the fish. actually don't try the fish. the fish has been polluted swimming in our streams no one cares about anymore...

bonus: what's the most amount of money you'd be willing to spend on:
car?
couch?
shoes?

i didn't used to have money. but then i joined the government. car? i don't like cars. cars are yucky. i like flying cars and starship enterprises. or maybe only if it's like KITT. that's where Alfred the Butler went when he died btw, KITT. i lost my virginity in the back of a bus. a public bus. i got a free ride. to college. the bus driver dropped me off at the nearest local community college on a hill and stranded me there. it was her lunch break.

i only trust one kind of couch. that bought from the Sofa King. or it's Sofa Queen now after the paradigm shift. it has to be purchased in The Valley where Cobra Kai is. or Dr. Drew's couch. that's how Dr. Drew got so buff. he does 100 pushups every morning with his couch on his back. the couch is empty cos all of his clients come in around noon. all of his clients are celebrities.

i'm with my girl Cardi B, bloody shoes. Redbottoms for Halloween. Cardi and i are tight, we go way back, we grew up in the same neighborhood. i consider Earth one big neighborhood. she got a Bronx cheer on SNL. no a real Bronx CHEER, not a jeer, she's a local girl, that's why.

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