My ass is like a dog whistle. All I have to do is fart and the ladies arrive. I certainly do not want it that way, and I can not imagine how it works. It must be a freakishly-strange coincidence. I see a clear room and think I can safely let one seep out. As soon as I pass gas, females show up! Sometimes they enter before the audio presentation has faded, but they always happen upon the scene before the stink fades. I liken it to washing your car to make it rain. I should be nervous about passing gas in a housing unit composed mostly of child-molesters and homosexuals, thinking they might be listening and fantasizing about my asshole diameter and gauge or something, but I do not care.
As long as they do not start licking the windows, or doing other strange acts of perversion during their fantasies.
Speaking of strange acts of perversion, Homer Forrester was a fucking Nazi stuck with the child-molesters (chimos) on housing unit one. The D & E unit was technically protective-custody (PC), but the majority of them were protected because they were chimos. Even inmates have a judgment system: You do not mess with kids. Most inmates will tell you that it is okay to rob somebody or get hooked on drugs, but it is not okay to prey on women and children.
Homer had received a breakfast tray and was looking for a place to sit and devour his meal. The next thing I knew, one of the chimo-pansies found himself on his backside with a swollen eye. Homer claimed the guy was talking smack. I learned later that Homer had tried this method multiple times until he found a patsy.
I asked a simple question, but the answer was quite complicated. I went to Homer, wanting to know why he would sucker punch a weasely little punk over a spot at the breakfast table. He explained to me that he had to get out of the unit, and this seemed like the easiest and most painless way. Pick a patsy that would not fight back.
“The Mexicans are out to get me.” “What do you mean?”
“Well, the other day, when our side was locked down, I prepared a jolly rancher.”
“What do you mean, prepared?”
“Well, I stuffed it in my ass, and pushed it back out. Then I wrapped a pubic hair around it, and put the plastic wrapper back on it. When I saw one of the Hispanic fuckers walking past the door, I slid it out at him. He accepted it as a gift, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth.”
“Dude, I am Hispanic.”
“Really? I wouldn’t tell anybody. You look like a fine Aryan specimen to me.”
“Never mind that. How did he find out what you had done with it?”
“Oh, I got his attention and told him right away!” “Wait a minute. You have a tri-fecta here. First, you stuck
a Jolly Rancher in your ass. Then you fed it to somebody. Then you told them about it? Well no wonder they want to kick your ass. I can’t say I blame them. You have that one coming. You are the architect of your own misery.”
“The spoken word is the least reliable and most misunderstood form of communication.”
As long as they do not start licking the windows, or doing other strange acts of perversion during their fantasies.
Speaking of strange acts of perversion, Homer Forrester was a fucking Nazi stuck with the child-molesters (chimos) on housing unit one. The D & E unit was technically protective-custody (PC), but the majority of them were protected because they were chimos. Even inmates have a judgment system: You do not mess with kids. Most inmates will tell you that it is okay to rob somebody or get hooked on drugs, but it is not okay to prey on women and children.
Homer had received a breakfast tray and was looking for a place to sit and devour his meal. The next thing I knew, one of the chimo-pansies found himself on his backside with a swollen eye. Homer claimed the guy was talking smack. I learned later that Homer had tried this method multiple times until he found a patsy.
I asked a simple question, but the answer was quite complicated. I went to Homer, wanting to know why he would sucker punch a weasely little punk over a spot at the breakfast table. He explained to me that he had to get out of the unit, and this seemed like the easiest and most painless way. Pick a patsy that would not fight back.
“The Mexicans are out to get me.” “What do you mean?”
“Well, the other day, when our side was locked down, I prepared a jolly rancher.”
“What do you mean, prepared?”
“Well, I stuffed it in my ass, and pushed it back out. Then I wrapped a pubic hair around it, and put the plastic wrapper back on it. When I saw one of the Hispanic fuckers walking past the door, I slid it out at him. He accepted it as a gift, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth.”
“Dude, I am Hispanic.”
“Really? I wouldn’t tell anybody. You look like a fine Aryan specimen to me.”
“Never mind that. How did he find out what you had done with it?”
“Oh, I got his attention and told him right away!” “Wait a minute. You have a tri-fecta here. First, you stuck
a Jolly Rancher in your ass. Then you fed it to somebody. Then you told them about it? Well no wonder they want to kick your ass. I can’t say I blame them. You have that one coming. You are the architect of your own misery.”
“The spoken word is the least reliable and most misunderstood form of communication.”
No comments:
Post a Comment