Sunday, November 26, 2006
Thanksgiving With The Speeds
So, we drove up to the High Desert to my sister's house. There were the usual suspects there. Everything went well. I played my usual role as the amiable drunk. There was much merriment, eating, and convos. My sister's business is going swimmingly.
Unfortunately, my niece called from Oklahoma. She is such a Fucking Hypocritical Bitch. She supposedly is all into God, but she treats people like shit, and she consistantly says fucked up shit to me to get under my skin.
So Fucking Hypocritical Bitch is on the speakerphone talking to everyone, and she's fucking crying because she's fucking 30 years old and she's alone in Oklahoma and no one of the opposite sex wants her (and that's a whole 'nother story), and out of no where, this bitch says " . . . and Uncle Brian, I'm going to pray for you and your personality and your ways . . . "
BITCH!
You want to pray for someone, pray for your fucking self. You have no fucking clue about the shit that I have to deal with every fucking day.
Every. Fucking. Day.
The average fucker would have eaten a bullet already. Probably 2. I'm still going strong, while you had to run to goddamn Oklahoma, because you're still trying to fucking find yourself. You're another one that talks the talk but can't walk the walk.
My personality and and my ways are my problem, not yours, so fuck off.
If you weren't my niece . . .
Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving.
Unfortunately, my niece called from Oklahoma. She is such a Fucking Hypocritical Bitch. She supposedly is all into God, but she treats people like shit, and she consistantly says fucked up shit to me to get under my skin.
So Fucking Hypocritical Bitch is on the speakerphone talking to everyone, and she's fucking crying because she's fucking 30 years old and she's alone in Oklahoma and no one of the opposite sex wants her (and that's a whole 'nother story), and out of no where, this bitch says " . . . and Uncle Brian, I'm going to pray for you and your personality and your ways . . . "
BITCH!
You want to pray for someone, pray for your fucking self. You have no fucking clue about the shit that I have to deal with every fucking day.
Every. Fucking. Day.
The average fucker would have eaten a bullet already. Probably 2. I'm still going strong, while you had to run to goddamn Oklahoma, because you're still trying to fucking find yourself. You're another one that talks the talk but can't walk the walk.
My personality and and my ways are my problem, not yours, so fuck off.
If you weren't my niece . . .
Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Sex, Seafood, and San Francisco
What a cool fucking weekend. Drove up to Frisco, the Town Car handled beautifully, got great gas mileage (fuck YOU, gas station terrorists), the weather was perfect, and the adventures were superb.
Left friday morning, got into the city by 3:00 p.m., and when we went to check in, the bitchclerk behind the fucking counter tried to give me every room except the one that I goddamn reserved. I always stay at the same hotel, in about the same room, facing the water. This tramp tries to give me a first floor smoking room facing the marina. I'm like, "Yo, that ain't what I reserved on the internet." Bitchclerk is all snotty-like, "That's what we show you with." She left off the "Sir" part. And that started to piss me off. I drove 6 fucking hours so that I could get attitude from some bitch that can't fucking read? I DON'T THINK SO.
So I whipped out my reservation that I had printed and brought with me, that clearly showed a non-smoking room, on the 12th floor, facing the ocean. Bitchclerk is all like, "We don't have any rooms like that available. We have rooms facing the marina." She left off the "Sir" part again. I'm like, "Get your manager, I'm done talking to you." Luckily, the manager happened to walk in right then, and looked at my face. "Is everything allright, sir?"
"No," I said through tight lips, "This woman is trying to give me everything except the room that I reserved. Why is she trying to give me a hard time?" I pushed my internet res at her, and she picked it up, and told bitchclerk to give me my room and stop hassling the paying customers. So, we got the room I wanted, went up, had drinks, had sex, then had dinner.
Saturday, we did the tourist thing, We had breakfast at Bubba Gumps (complete with an actor playing Forest Gump) on Pier 39, walked down to Fisherman's Wharf, the Bay cruise (I didn't feel like going onto Alcatraz again) the submarine tour, cruising the old haunts, and of course, drinking to excess. It was a full day. We had dinner at the Gingerbread House with Miss Noelle, and she was in fucking full effect. I explained that Miss Noelle was a persona, so take her with a grain of salt. We went back to our room and had vigorous and spirited sex, then I passed out.
Sunday, I was considering going to Mecca, also known as McAfee Stadium and going to the Raider game, but Al Davis was too stupid to schedule the Raiders to play at home when I was in town, so that plan went to shit. We ended up going to a late breakfast, because we were watching/listening to the Raider game. I wanted to blow off the game and go eat, because I had burned up a lot of energy the night before, but, I wanted to cheer my team to victory. Well, you know what happened. I had a crab and shrimp omelette, which was good, but the defeat (an interception on the last play of the game) left a bitter fucking taste in my mouth. I choked down the food, then we drove over to Sausilito and spent the day there. An 800 sq. foot house was going for 1.7 million. Right.
Drove back into Frisco in the evening and went to go see Borat, since Casino Royale was sold out. Borat was fucking funny, but the San Francisco audience started hissing when dude was talking about homos. That was fucking funny to me. We left the theater and had dinner at Castognolas. Went to the blues club next door for drinks, and like an ass, I did not make it to Yoshi's. Staggered back to the hotel, had sex again, and passed out like a rock. Sheesh.
Monday, return to the real world. Bah. Got up late, left late, and didn't make it to Pacific Coast Highway. Bah again.
Uneventful journey back, except that all the California Highway Patrol guys were going north, and we were going south, so THAT was all good. Average mileage was about 22, which ain't bad.
Next trip, a return to Monterey.
Left friday morning, got into the city by 3:00 p.m., and when we went to check in, the bitchclerk behind the fucking counter tried to give me every room except the one that I goddamn reserved. I always stay at the same hotel, in about the same room, facing the water. This tramp tries to give me a first floor smoking room facing the marina. I'm like, "Yo, that ain't what I reserved on the internet." Bitchclerk is all snotty-like, "That's what we show you with." She left off the "Sir" part. And that started to piss me off. I drove 6 fucking hours so that I could get attitude from some bitch that can't fucking read? I DON'T THINK SO.
So I whipped out my reservation that I had printed and brought with me, that clearly showed a non-smoking room, on the 12th floor, facing the ocean. Bitchclerk is all like, "We don't have any rooms like that available. We have rooms facing the marina." She left off the "Sir" part again. I'm like, "Get your manager, I'm done talking to you." Luckily, the manager happened to walk in right then, and looked at my face. "Is everything allright, sir?"
"No," I said through tight lips, "This woman is trying to give me everything except the room that I reserved. Why is she trying to give me a hard time?" I pushed my internet res at her, and she picked it up, and told bitchclerk to give me my room and stop hassling the paying customers. So, we got the room I wanted, went up, had drinks, had sex, then had dinner.
Saturday, we did the tourist thing, We had breakfast at Bubba Gumps (complete with an actor playing Forest Gump) on Pier 39, walked down to Fisherman's Wharf, the Bay cruise (I didn't feel like going onto Alcatraz again) the submarine tour, cruising the old haunts, and of course, drinking to excess. It was a full day. We had dinner at the Gingerbread House with Miss Noelle, and she was in fucking full effect. I explained that Miss Noelle was a persona, so take her with a grain of salt. We went back to our room and had vigorous and spirited sex, then I passed out.
Sunday, I was considering going to Mecca, also known as McAfee Stadium and going to the Raider game, but Al Davis was too stupid to schedule the Raiders to play at home when I was in town, so that plan went to shit. We ended up going to a late breakfast, because we were watching/listening to the Raider game. I wanted to blow off the game and go eat, because I had burned up a lot of energy the night before, but, I wanted to cheer my team to victory. Well, you know what happened. I had a crab and shrimp omelette, which was good, but the defeat (an interception on the last play of the game) left a bitter fucking taste in my mouth. I choked down the food, then we drove over to Sausilito and spent the day there. An 800 sq. foot house was going for 1.7 million. Right.
Drove back into Frisco in the evening and went to go see Borat, since Casino Royale was sold out. Borat was fucking funny, but the San Francisco audience started hissing when dude was talking about homos. That was fucking funny to me. We left the theater and had dinner at Castognolas. Went to the blues club next door for drinks, and like an ass, I did not make it to Yoshi's. Staggered back to the hotel, had sex again, and passed out like a rock. Sheesh.
Monday, return to the real world. Bah. Got up late, left late, and didn't make it to Pacific Coast Highway. Bah again.
Uneventful journey back, except that all the California Highway Patrol guys were going north, and we were going south, so THAT was all good. Average mileage was about 22, which ain't bad.
Next trip, a return to Monterey.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
I'm driving up to Frisco tomorrow.
Dr. Speed's List
The idea for this post is totally stolen from craigslist, and the names have been changed, because, as my lawyers assure me, without proper names, these are only "musings".
Let's start with Betty Page, you are absolutely the best fuckbuddy, ever. It's pretty cool the way that things have evolved from a simple fling, to some earthshaking fucking. You've changed your whole life for me, or really, because you love this dick. I will never forget that, you sexy motherfucker.
Next up, The Living Amazon, the sex with you was good, not great. But yet, you started running around telling fuckers that I rocked your world, and no one had ever touched you like I had, and you started introducing me to your buddies as your boyfriend. Oh yeah, I know that they were outside when we fucked that time. I hope they enjoyed the show. I told your pretty ass from the start that all I wanted was a drama-free sexual relationship. Things started out fine, then you came with the famous BLACK WOMAN'S 'tude. Even when I told you to chill with that shit, you kept coming with more and more. Any wonder that I stopped seeing you? That shit is fucking creepy, and is the reason you are single today. With a body like yours, you could have anyone you want, too bad your head is so fucked up.
Miss Prissy . . . shit, where do I start? Frankly, you are much lighter-skinned than I usually prefer. You really remind me of FloJo. Complete with FloJo's body. And you're a complicated motherfucker. The courtship with you was a solid trip. Yes, I had no idea that you wanted me to kiss you. Yes, I had no idea that you were inviting me to your house. Yes, I had no idea that you wanted to fuck me. You knew that I was married, you knew that I had a mistress, so where exactly does that leave you? First, you call me a whore, then you tell me that you are going to fuck me. For the record, bitch, I'm more of a slut, than a whore. Get your shit straight. Then, when I am inside you, you try to tell me that I'm supposed to ask you before I have sex with anyone else.
You know my history. What the fuck is wrong with you? Seriously.
And by the way, you're a grown-ass woman, do you really think that your momma doesn't know that you have sex? You are too fucking neurotic, but I like fucking you, so I'm going to keep on. Enjoy the ride, psycho.
A-Bomb; you make me fucking sick. You look like Naomi Campbell, but you have no hips. None. That's a deal-breaker you ignorant fucker. And, you're only 22. Waaaaay to young for me, girl. Your last boyfriend drugged you, took your credit card, and got a room at the Bel-Air Hotel so he could fuck some video bitches. You came crying on my shoulder, hoping that I would pick you up. I knew then that you were too stupid to fuck with. "Oh Brian, what should I do?" I told you right then that you shouldn't fuck with anyone on the job, and the next thing I know, you've hooked up with E-20. You're another one who could have anyone she wants, and you settle for that piece of shit. Now, he's playing fucked up mindgames on you, and you're walking around crying because you think you need him. You are too fucking beautiful to be so goddamn insecure. The worst part? Some of my buddies think that I've conquered you already. I despise your weakness that you wear like a badge of honor.
Tornado Girl. You think it's cool to tell me what a prick I am, and how much of a jerk I am. I only listen to your shit because you give good head, and we used to have fun together.
