Teabagging for Dummies

Or Douchbagging for Tummies. I don't quite know. It's been a long strange week, and like the Scott says, can we just fuck now?

Seriously. I have a barely remembered conversation about the ultimate dichotomy of the universe being robots vs. zombies with a hot chick friday night and all I really can think about is how much I need some red meat. Her name is Kate Mills. I know her last name and that is literally how far it will ever go. I think I told her I love her.

Saturday night I'm having dinner with a vegetarian, and other than that I just think those shots of rum weren't processed at all that friday night, they just lingered in my system to redrunk me saturday between the third and fourth hour of work. If Xala offered you rum shots, you'd take them too, and don't you fuckin deny it. That girl is cryptonite wrapped in guinness for me, and I don't care that she doesn't like boys.

Seriously, dinner dates with vegetarians are going to be my sixth rung of hell, the one I'd be confined to if you were assigned rank by the frequency of transgressions rather than by the most serious committed. Wait, the sixth is for seed spilling right?

Can I tell you about Heather? Of all the girls who've bought me beer, she is my favorite. "This Year's Model saved my life." "Everyone says that."

I need a steak monster to attack tokyo. And I need Tokyo to be defended by robotic stomachs. And then I need some sappy strings to rise to crescendo while the whole world burns and I'd cry, just fucking cry my fucking eyes out because it'd be just too fucking beautiful.

If you were Scott, you'd know what I was talking about. And if I was Scott, I'd tell you to blow me while I tell you my top five, all-time special effects for time-travel in movies.

But I'm me, so blow me while I make you a latte that'll make your knees weak. Better yet, bend over the counter. Let me tell you I love you.