Hey, the last update I wrote took a lot out of me so I'm letting my friend do an article. I'm not one to shy away from work, but this guy has been bothering me for a few months. Did I say friend? I meant the gross Gulf War veteran who works in a warehouse down the street. Don't ask how we met. Apparently, he has always wanted to be a sex columnist. "A lot of experience is all you need," he says. He has also declared that he has it. So here goes.
Yo, this is the Wolf. If you met me before the 1999 Poison Tour in Cincinnati you would have known me as Roy "Tiger" Davis, but now it's just Wolf. Anyway, Wolf here and I'm on the prowl for questions. Not teenagers. NOT TEENAGERS, ONLY QUESTIONS. Sorry, the courts make me put that disclaimer in any public messages I write. Anyway, the Wolf has heard that there are a few nerds lost in these woods. Instead of wasting your time reading another whiny page from salmon seasoning, let the Wolf train you. Ahhhhh-Wooooooo, that's my wolf call, it's my signature. Learn it, love it, howl it.
Let's roll out.
No. Absolutely not. Being in a relationship is like driving a car in rush-hour traffic. Other cars are at a standstill so you just kick your Grand-Am into the emergency lane and zoom outta there. Things are flying by and people are yelling but forget them. Then, in a second's flash you realize that you're almost at your exit ramp so you
swerve over seven lanes. A massive pileup ensues and you lose a hubcap, million dollars in damage the news says that night, but at least you made your exit. So, really, sex is like driving onto an exit ramp. It doesn't matter about anyone else, as long as you get off. Get it? Hell yeah. Ahhhhh-Wooooooo
A few weeks ago, I got so drunk at the bar that I fell asleep in the pisser. The bartender locked me in for the night and I couldn't get out until a Miller deliveryman unlocked the door. I had to show up at my next job hung over. My pits were stinking and the toilet water I had been barfing into made my hair freeze up like a Mohawk. It was pretty badass looking though so I kept it. During lunch I tried to wash my shirt and a few girls at the laundry mat, real hotties no less, said it was a nice faux-hawk, but I didn't see what was so faux about it. So like, tits are tits. Some people call them real, some people call them
fake, but they're all nice. Ahhhh-Woooo
I had to do some masonry work on the weekend last week and I didn't get home until the afternoon. I opened up a Bud and turned on TNT. The race had already started and I was pissed that I missed the first fifty laps. It was a good race, but I wasn't that revved up.
On the other hand I was totally revved at the Pepsi 500 that Dave got me tickets to (Thanks Dave. Oh and Dave, if you're reading this at the library, go see if they have Predator on VHS.) Prior to the start of the race the opening ceremony included:
I was wooting before the race started.
So one of the races made me proud about traveling half way around the world to kill people, while the other failed to relieve me from my crippling post-war depression. Guess which race made me feel good? That's what foreplay does.
Let's give an Ahhh-Woooo to the Pepsi 500 and another Ahhh-Woooo to Dave for the tickets. (If they don't have Predator just renew Lethal Weapon and we can watch that again.)
Have you ever seen the movie The Rock. It's a quote from that. I'm saying you gotta stop being such a wuss and face up to your fears and shove a huge needle in your heart to fix the virus. GOD DAMN Nicholas Cage is so badass. WOO now I gotta go watch that.
Alright, well there you have it folks. The Wolf has spoken or whatever. If you have any questions, email them to me and I can forward them onto Wolf and he can give out some more slurred words of wisdom.
Facebook must remain unflagging in its vigilance against titties even in these troubled times of rising fascism.
It needs to consume human tissue! It needs to speak to your manager!
Reason 9: Ongoing mechanical issues with the internal Superman 64 fog machine.
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