A Tongue in the Bum Is Worth Two in the Bush

From: <***@yahoo.ca>
Date: 1 September 2010 00:21
Subject: Up in cottage country
To: Pizz


The most sensational sweet soul sister who swings only with swankiest of suitable suitors and plays only with the purveyors of premium pleasure.

You good? All's swell at my end. Good days and not. But I gotta tell ya, it's a gal like you that makes my sun shine whenever I need it.

I'm "working" up at my employer's cottage (cottage, my ass. P, this place is no cottage! Who has a tennis court and a gated entrance at their cottage!!!)
I can't sleep and I haven't spoken to you in too long and I'm a little high and my iPod is keeping me company and how many special people change; how many lives are living strange? Where were you while we were getting high? And I miss my friend.
For real. Huge love to you, baby. We will speak soon and see one another in the not-so-distant future.

Jizz Xoxox
....driving a stolen car on a pitch black night and I'm doing my best make it through...


from Pizz
to Jizz ***@yahoo.ca
date 9 September 2010 11:48
subject Re: Up in cottage country
mailed-bygmail.com


Have been waiting to respond when I had a proper amount of time to counter with equivalent penmanshit. Brilliant use of alliteration, but if I may critique, “...plays only with the purveyors of premium pleasure” should have read, “...plays only with the purveyors of premium perineum pleasure”. It taint right any other way.

I’m fighting fit, thanks. Although, if I continue to copulate the canine much longer whilst in my 9 to 5 function, I’ll no doubt end up the third G&tWJ* to get sacked for scripting the sullied subject of sensuous sacks. This inspires me to possibly throw a couple of “best of” G&tWJs exchanges into my derelict blog. The problem is the time to sift through the emails without a) getting busted for pissing myself at non-work related correspondence and b) we could probably come up with more G&tWJs “best of” compilations than ABBA. OK, maybe not ABBA, but at least more than Zamfir, the Undisputed King of the Pan Flute.

Let’s deviate from the pan flute with what’s whetting your man flute these days? Any filthy yarn to spin? When sick with some bronchial business a couple of weeks ago, I took the occasion to rummage through POF, as I’ve shed my summer mentourage with aspirations of making room for someone delicious to squat in my gluttonous gap long-term. I happened across an appetising high school acquaintance that had not only kept up well physically, but also appeared to be in the ranks above the usual degenerates that loiter around my skirt in vain. Sent the man a message and we’ve had a couple of outstanding dates turned jammy parties sans jammies. Not only does he seem to be a great guy, i.e. fun, intelligent, easy company, has shit together, has sweet meat and is überhot, but our sex-collective is like a new Cirque du Soleil production, which we’ll entitle, “Tongue Tickle My Fancy”. And we know how I feel about a little tinker in my stinker...yes, I’ll do all I can to hang on to this one.

“A tongue in the bum is worth two in the bush.”
- Goldie of G&tWJs

Love you like I love the abovementioned activity,
Goldie

*Goldie & the Warm Jets

Serious Offers Only

This one is for you, Bourcier:

A rather witty person was selling a bike on craigslist, so I took a stab at negotiating a few bucks off the asking price in exchange for a cheeky reply. Again, it only served as a reminder that I must not actually be that funny because I got neither the ride nor even a counter offer. It’s OK because I really want to hold out for the 10-speed with the upside-down handle bars.

His fab ad:

Totally Excellent Mountain Bike for Sale, With Many Wonderful Benefits
Date: 2010-06-01, 9:55AM

I am selling my old bike. It is a sturdy and excellent mountain bike that I am only selling because it is too small for me. It has a black 56cm “Mingo” frame and sturdy, effective mudguards. The tires (slicks) are new. There are 21 speeds, ranging from “Sunday Stroll” to “Interstellar Overdrive.”
I have put at least $200 of maintenance and repairs into it over the last couple of years. Everything works real nice.
This bicycle is fully bilingual. A comprehensive list of its past sexual partners is available upon request (subject to confidentiality agreement).
I am asking 150 dollars. In addition to the bike itself, the lucky cyclist who purchases it at that price will also get the following premium items at no additional cost:
1) Choice of one of the five following names for the bike, deliverable on payment:
St. Urbain’s Bikesman
Steve Bike-o
I am Curious (Vélo)
Sir Cycle Sexy
Marion “Cobra” Cobretti
2) A lightly used DVD copy of Bruce Willis’ ambitious 1991 starring vehicle Hudson Hawk. Still waiting for some contrarian critic or fan to champion this as an unfairly maligned classic. It could be you!
3) A hearty handshake OR friendly pat on the back
4) A link to the YouTube page hosting the video for the Baha Men’s “Who Let the Dogs Out?”
5) Two sentences of your choice rendered in my celebrated Sean Connery impersonation. (Deliverable at time of payment only. No political content.)
SERIOUS OFFERS ONLY

Location: Mile-End
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

My futile reply:

Dearest individual selling the two-wheeled dream machine,

Your self-propelled vehicle sounds nothing short of my other two fantasy rides; the DeLorean from Back to the Future and Emmanuel Lewis on a weekend supply of Cialis.

Do you think this frame might be suitable for a woman of my not-so-generous height of 5' 4"? Yes, I know, in Asian countries this makes me of super model stature, but alas, I've accepted that I remain diminutive here.

Although you've put a significant amount of resources and no doubt, deep-seated affection into this, is a discount available under the following conditions?

1. We agree upon a DADT (don’t ask, don’t tell) policy in regards to the sexual history and orientation of said bicycle. Under this condition, all awkwardness will be abolished and I will not be compelled to imagine whose clammy groins have polished its seat until their thighs were chafed like a drunk high school girl’s mouth after a rainbow party. Denial is bliss. The only deal-breaker to this is if there are any illegitimate tricycles that I should know about, in case of any dead-beat child-support liens against it.
2. I let you choose the name, which I will agree to keep until its demise and pledge to not call it, nor you, by the name “motherf****er” should it have a mechanical failure. For the record though, I’m quite drawn to St. Urbain’s Bikesman and am curious as to why this vessel has masculine names, but will suppress any further prying out of respect for the guiding principles behind DADT.
3. You get visitation rights to both the bike and Hudson Hawk, with the only stipulation being that the DVD comes with me on the July 4th long weekend, when I visit my American cousins at their trailer in Plattsburgh. After a long night of overindulging on squirrel-kabobs and BBQing broken lawn chairs over the campfire, I’m sure they’d value winding down to a formidable plot of ex-cons, the CIA, world domination and explosions. If things don’t go bang-bang, they just won’t get it, so we’ll need the dick-flick that day.
4. Do you do Darryl Hammond impersonating Sean Connery on Celebrity Jeopardy? If so, I’d prefer, "It looks like this is my lucky day. I'll take "the rapists" for 200!"
5. I don’t force you to look at my car, a 1997 Protegé named Goldie Horn, because your sympathy alone will coerce you into giving me the ride for free.

One concern about the “Interstellar Overdrive” speed - I’m a bit apprehensive about the possibility of accidentally going too fast on my way back from Jean Talon Market and ending up in the Milky Way galaxy instead of my preferred destination. It’s my understanding that Swiss Chard tends to wilt whilst travelling between the stars, which would be a waste of money and, more importantly, proper nutrients. Does this risk qualify for an additional markdown?

If you agree to these terms and I like the bike, I’ve got $100 and an email from a Nigerian Prince containing a guaranteed offer to transfer 3.4 million USD into your bank account, which I’m willing to forward to you upon delivery.

Thank you for your consideration,
Imu

But Does She Give the Milk for Free?

Freshly popping back into the dating scene, even with years of experience, being a chick oft overwhelmed by emotions, one can forget that one can still be beguiled into dropping one's drawers. You know the ol' adage to charm our panties off: boy meets girl, boy tells girl he has deep feelings for her, girl sucks cock, girl screws boy, girl sucks more cock, girl reciprocates feelings to boy, boy realises that sex has sentimental strings attached, hence boy ditches girl. So, I decided it'd be a good idea to make it clear to any prospects that I don't intend to give the milk for free. Here's how the ad will run:

Purebred Blonde Angus cow for sale. Still young enough for calving, is low maintenance and accepts the occasional ration of bullshit in exchange for a good roping. Has had previous owners who can attest that she's top cut. Won't give the milk for free, but has nice teats. Price negotiable - willing to barter for a pig who knows what he wants.

Eating Rainbow (the rejected letter to Penthouse Forum)

Dear Penthouse Forum,

My first girl on girl exploit went into full swing on a gorgeous, sunny day at a Pride parade. Sounds tacky that it happened during Pride, but I swear to the Chocolate Cha Cha Gods it's true. My man had been away for several weeks and I was left to the masses – masses of liquor and masses of tourists insatiably looking to lay down some new rug.

As it was a sizzling afternoon, my mates and I decided that consuming some frosty spirits before noon was not only reasonable, but compulsory. Amid a sea of rainbows, came deafening roars of hogs, being ridden by the leaders of this procession – The Dykes on Bikes. Some were unabashedly in the raw; with tits like triangular, soggy flapjacks flailing in the wind likes flags at half-mast. Most were adorned in so much leather and rubber garb, it was apparent that this ceremonial dress bore much more magnitude than the fact that it was 30^C. To each her own, but while we're being frank – that would be some rancid crotch by dusk (ahem…an excellent occasion to use the contraction "swunt"*).

We bellowed out to the proud merrymakers and loved watching them sail by on their vibrant floats. The costumes were outstanding; silver painted testicles, foot-long lashes, and trannies on Rollerblades with wigs bigger than Rita McNeil's ass. This went on for hours – the parade was slightly disordered, so it went on for too many hours. Consequently, by the closing stages, we'd sucked back so much sauce that we were blinder than moles and rowdier than a thousand frat boys on a road trip to Porntown.

On weekend afternoons, most night clubs would still be in a slumber. However, in the Gay Village during this coveted celebration, all watering holes (no pun intended) are open and standing by to quench the thirst of all of us keeners. God bless their haute couture socks! And so, we shook it down and lapped up the cocktails like minors at the Neverland Ranch. Yes, yes, we have digressed from the lesbian part…put your hands back where we can see them…sheesh.

Whilst shamelessly boogying on the speakers like a dizzy, Ste-Anne-de-Bellevue Pub tart, I separately met two great gay men. You know, the type of fleeting friends one is enchanted with only when inebriated or savagely high on disco biscuits. They were both so cute that I proceeded to set them up and off onto their own speaker they went to polish their poles. I wouldn't be deserted for long. Like magic (not the type of magic that my little sister thought she made the first time she farted in the bathtub, but like magic with sparkles sent from the supernatural), came a cowgirl before me. She was sporting a cowboy hat, replica chaps over her jeans and a holster with a plastic pistol. However, as one might anticipate, there was no sheriff's badge. Why? Because there was NOTHING covering her upper torso to hold a badge of any description. She was a topless cowgirl and she was all over me like Miss U.S.A. on a six-pack.

Did I mention how smashed I was? So, I'm not certain how it unfolded exactly, but I do know her tongue swiftly made its way down my throat. At first thrust, I thought I was getting pleasure from it. Conversely, after a few seconds, the bliss of the novelty had passed. Her kisses were sloppier and deeper than a La Cachette divorcée's va-jay-jay. I twisted in another direction, pretending to want to dance more in order to break away from her sodden pie-hole. Well, come what may, Topless Cowgirl managed to lasso onto my tonsils again. You'll be pleased to know I let her give it another go. Then, like a starry-eyed virgin, I thought, "This isn't how I imagined it. I hoped my first would have a much better rack than this feeble excuse for A-cups." So, I told her that I'm straight and again, like a flash of witchcraft, she was nowhere to be seen.

Friends, not unlike the thumping blue-balls you have from where you thought this story was going, my fantasy still remains unfulfilled. Should I let my ideals of the perfect maiden for muff immersion die or should I remain persistent with my dream of eating rainbow?

Signed,

Vertically Smiling

*Swunt: A brilliant hybrid of "sweaty cunt".