Here's what I got: a stuffy nose; a washer full of clothes that has to be put in the dryer before bed, a glass and a half of water, and a few shots of bourbon.
That's what I have to work with tonight, and then I'm going to bed. My princess and I have recently started working out (again), and it's kicking my ass. Dealing with rush hour traffic at the end of a long day of work doesn't help much, either. Point being, I'm tired, and I don't care if going to bed at nine means I'm a gaping pussy.
Besides, I don't really have much to write about.
I was driving down the road today and I passed a car with a custom license plate. I glanced over and saw "fster."
"Holy smokes," I thought to myself. "The sexual deviants are getting more outspoken by the day." Some of you may not think like me, so allow me to enlighten you.
The practice of fisting is when you get your entire hand up in a vagina or rectum. This is generally something I'd just link to, but due to a combination of good sense and weak stomachs, a number of you have stopped clicking my handy dandy hyper-links. And it's important that you understand the concept of fisting for the rest of this story. I personally feel it's important to understand the concept of fisting anyway, just to be a well-rounded person. You're welcome.
Anyway, I saw this personalized license plate and was amazed that someone would get this particular term as a form of recognition. I did a double-take, naturally. And that's when I saw that there was more: "n u."
Fister in you.
Was this a threat? An invitation? Did he lose a bet? What exactly was going on with this guy? I was on the verge of ramming him off the road just so I could ask, when the sane part of my brain clicked on.
"fster n u."
Faster. The first part was faster. So it was supposed to be "faster than you."
The disappointment surged through my body like rotten blood. Like when you see Santa Claus for the first time, sneaking in through your back door. And then he starts kissing your mother. And then they knock the carefully stacked cookies that you made from scratch onto the floor and they screw on the kitchen table. And then your dad wanders out, red-eyed and stinking of gin, and he begins hitting Santa and your mom with a golf club, and when the cops finally show up, you discover that Santa is actually your neighbor Mr. Harris, your dad is actually an abusive alcoholic, and your mom is actually a whore.
Yep, that's an experience we can all relate to, right?
I eased my foot down on the gas pedal and drove around him.
Anyway, I just put my laundry into the dryer, and although I didn't make it to the bourbon, you at least got a story involving an explicit sex act, so we'll call it even.
Oh, and here: