December 1, just 24 more shopping daze until Xmas. Here’s my list: I wanna new pair of…hold your breath for this…I wanna new pair of fucking everything. A new car (after all, I only got one car ‘n it’s old); a new motorsickle (yeah, I got three of the suckers but they’re all old, just like the car; a new, well, we can go on down the line and double everything I have, everything I have ever had, and everything I might want or will ever want. Maybe even triple it all.
Except for wives, ex-wives, girlfriends and ex-girlfriends. I don’t need more of any of those categories to be stocked or restocked, not even for Christmas.
All right, here it is. You know, what I really need for Christmas:
Huh? There’s nothing in the space following that last colon. No mistake or omission, either. Pathetic, isn’t it? Almost un-American. I don’t really need anything. ((Hmmm. If I were to dig, I could discover some suggestions for a gift. An altruistic suggestion. Is that OK, Sanna? Yeah? Could I have a new President? Puhleese? Or at least a new legislature. Federal or state. Both, if possible, though I’ll settle for either.))
Truth time. Now that I’m considering the possibility, I do have a niggling, miniscule want. Jennifer, are you listening? After all, Brad’s gone. So is Justin. Wouldn’t you like an old dude who doesn’t have swiveling eyeballs, radar looking out for the next pretty woman? A guy who doesn’t think Angelina is particularly appealing; particularly not when compared with you. A guy who would do anything you wanted, a man who would fulfill your inner-most naughty sexual fantasies, no matter how disgusting, degrading, etc., they might be.
Unless, of course, those fantasies included multiple times, massive size…
OK, I need to rethink this.
I think it’s back to paragraph three. I don’t really need anything.